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Prescription For Seduction
Darlene Scalera


WHAT'S THE SEXY DOCTOR DOING WITH THE TOWN VIRGIN?Studly Brady Spencer and shy Eden Frazier–a preposterous pair, you say? How else do you explain the good doctor making late-night house calls at Eden's flower shop? The self-proclaimed last maiden in America denies a dalliance, saying, "I'm still wilting away like yesterday's roses," but this reporter suspects that Doc Brady's got the cure for what ails her! There's only one problem: Like a hothouse flower, Eden's saved herself–for one man, forever–but Brady's vowed to remain Tyler's last standing bachelor….








You’re invited to…




Return to Tyler


Where scandals and secrets are unleashed in a small town and love is found around every corner.…

The unforgettable stories continue with

Prescription for Seduction

Darlene Scalera

Bride of Dreams

Linda Randall Wisdom

And don’t miss two very special Tyler prequels, available from Harlequin Historicals

Night Hawk’s Bride

Jillian Hart

The Nanny

Judith Stacy


Dear Reader,

It’s February—the month of love. And what better way to celebrate Valentine’s Day than with a Harlequin American Romance novel.

This month’s selection begins with the latest installment in the RETURN TO TYLER series. Prescription for Seduction is what Darlene Scalera offers when sparks fly between a lovely virgin and a steadfast bachelor doctor. The Bride Said, “Surprise!” is another of Cathy Gillen Thacker’s THE LOCKHARTS OF TEXAS, and is a tender tale about a secret child who brings together two long-ago lovers. (Watch for Cathy’s single title, Texas Vows: A McCabe Family Saga, next month from Harlequin Books.)

In Millie Criswell’s charming new romance, The Pregnant Ms. Potter is rescued from a blizzard by a protective rancher who takes her into his home—and into his heart. And in Longwalker’s Child by Debra Webb, a proud Native American hero is determined to claim the child he never knew existed, but first he has to turn the little girl’s beautiful guardian from his sworn enemy into his loving ally.

So this February, treat yourself to all four of our wonderful Harlequin American Romance titles. And in March, look for Judy Christenberry’s Rent a Millionaire Groom, the first book in Harlequin American Romance’s new promotion, 2001 WAYS TO WED.

Wishing you happy reading,

Melissa Jeglinski

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin American Romance


Prescription for Seduction

Darlene Scalera






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


With love to my cousin, Cindy Meyer, whose compassion has become her career and whose shared giggles and excited whispers two days before Christmas are only one of many memories cherished.




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Darlene Scalera is a native New Yorker who graduated magna cum laude from Syracuse University with a degree in public communications. She worked in a variety of fields, including telecommunications and public relations, before devoting herself full-time to romance fiction writing. She was instrumental in forming the Saratoga, New York, chapter of Romance Writers of America and is a frequent speaker on romance writing at local schools, libraries, writing groups and women’s organizations. She currently lives happily ever after in upstate New York with her husband, Jim, and their two children, J.J. and Ariana. You can write to Darlene at P.O. Box 217, Niverville, NY 12130.




Books by Darlene Scalera


HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

762—A MAN FOR MEGAN

807—MAN IN A MILLION

819—THE COWBOY AND THE COUNTESS

861—PRESCRIPTION FOR SEDUCTION




Who’s Who in Tyler


Brady Spencer—With all his brothers finally married, only Brady is left to fight off the wily women of Tyler.

Eden Frazier—Can a twenty-seven-year-old maiden who lives with her cat transform herself into a femme fatale?

Caroline Benning—No one knows much about the new waitress at Marge’s Diner.

Cooper Night Hawk—The deputy keeps his eye on all newcomers, especially the suspicious Ms. Benning.

Wayne Donovan—The hunky express deliveryman would love to put his relationship with Eden on the fast track.

Gina Eber—She’s always on the trail of a juicy story to sizzle the pages of the Tyler Citizen.

Nadine—The Hair Affair’s new stylist knows a lot about hairdos and even more about men.

Annabelle Scanlon—The postmistress dishes out the mail—and the latest scandal.




Contents


Chapter One (#u046dbb7a-7d49-50e0-bf7a-26e81248d7be)

Chapter Two (#ubbea16bd-6ace-53a2-92c0-77ee2cc9ccbf)

Chapter Three (#u3a93410c-b0e7-5721-a89d-51cc3fc0951e)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


Brady Spencer came to Eden only at night. When the phone was quiet, the front door locked, the last customer gone hours ago. Only the light inside the display refrigerator remained bright. The garden scents seemed stronger.

Eden studied the table before her scattered with foam, floral tape, chicken wire, ribbon, flowers. She picked up a yielding lily and when she saw her hand was trembling, she closed her eyes, feeling foolish. There was a light knock at the back door. He always used the back door. She heard the handle turning, the door opening. The door was left unlocked. Eden opened her eyes, stayed her hands against the cool Formica tabletop.

Even before he opened the door, Brady smelled the sweetness. A sweetness different from blood’s hot smell or the operating room’s white, close scent. He stepped inside, closed the door, took a breath. Heaven would smell like this.

“Eden?” His voice was low, but still heard in the surrounding quiet.

“Doctor.” She appeared in the back room’s archway. In her hand she held a thin-stemmed flower, its large petals furled back, unafraid to reveal its secrets.

“Come in.” The flower pointed the way. “I’m just finishing an arrangement for the front windows.”

Brady smiled. Eden’s lush window displays were legendary. Tomorrow passersby would stop and stare like children in front of a pastry shop.

He followed her. The dark apron that covered her had been left undone in the back, its ties hanging loosely. The shift she wore beneath it was shapeless, a long column moving down her body, unbroken except for the push of small, rounded hips. The apron’s ties swung, and he saw her body’s curves come, change with a single sway, then disappear beneath the pale print. He looked up, realizing the feminine form he’d been ogling was Eden. His interest became unease. He looked away only to see more color, shape, proportion in the tubs, watering cans and jugs of flowers and greens. Spring had just begun in southern Wisconsin, but here, it reigned endless. He breathed in, gathering the composure that had made him one of the most trusted surgeons at Tyler General.

Eden had seen the frown appear on Brady’s face as he’d looked away. She dropped her gaze to the flowers on the table, envying them their beauty. “So another order?” She broke the silence. “Who’s the unsuspecting recipient this time?”

He looked at her. Her face was without makeup, her dark-brown hair pulled tight into a ponytail that stressed the shapes of her features—broad, almost flat cheeks, a colorless mouth. It was an ordinary face on an ordinary woman. She was average in height, only she seemed smaller, swallowed by the apron hanging loose, the formless dress that stretched to the jut of her thin ankles. There mint-green socks wrinkled above dull black loafers, the kind with the wide fit and the puckered seams worn by many of his elderly female patients.

His gaze moved to her hands, pale against the perfection of the flowers. Her wrists were thin. There was a vulnerability about her that made her appear much younger than her years. There was a quiet to her that made her seem much older. Both discouraged ogling. Still he had an urge to kneel and pull up those socks until they climbed smooth up her calves, ending just below her knees that had to be endearingly knobby. His unease crept in again.

She concentrated on the table before her, her shoulders hunched, her head bowed as if she were listening to the flowers. She taped leafy greens to a thin, pointed stick, angled it in among the others, adjusted a slender yellow-and-white bloom. She lifted her gaze back to him. He saw those eyes—large, round and made even more remarkable when compared to the surrounding ordinary features. These eyes didn’t just see, they fascinated, they divined, they reminded one that miracles did exist—all through an undefinable color. Its base was purple, but darker than the frail shade of an iris, lighter than the red-purple of a grape. It wasn’t the purplish-blue of periwinkle or the pale shadow of lilac nor the strong purple prized by royalty. It was a shade that belonged only to Eden.

She smiled, the shape of her face gentling. “Or has the Flower Phantom decided to reveal his identity?”

The Flower Phantom. The name had been coined in Gina Eber’s column in the Tyler Citizen about the recent secret flower deliveries around town. There’d been other anonymous gifts—the motorized toy jeeps to take the children cancer patients to chemotherapy; the DVD players with a complete collection of Jerry Lewis films for long-term care. But it was the flowers everyone remembered the most.

Eden unrolled some wire and clipped it. “Gina’s a good friend of mine, you know. In fact, she’s been stopping by the shop even more frequently.” She met Brady’s gaze.

“You don’t think she knows, do you?”

“She brought up the subject once or twice.” Eden looped a length of ribbon back and forth. “I told her that was privileged information between a florist and her client.”

He heard the unexpected jest in her soft voice. He remembered the push of her hips as she walked, the hint of curves and rounds. He couldn’t look away.

For a moment neither did she. When she finally did, he followed her gaze to the flowers waiting for her. There he saw blooms of purple. He searched for the shade of her eyes. He was a man who liked things defined.

“What color are your eyes?”

Her cheeks flushed, the deep-red seeming to alter her eye color. He hadn’t meant to make her uncomfortable by blurting out the question.

“People tell me it’s violet.” She looked down again, busying herself with the flowers. Only her blush was left exposed.

“Violet.” To most, it was a color. But he knew it as a woman’s name, a name he’d been forbidden to say since the age of eleven.

“Violet.” He said it again defiantly. Once there would’ve been no response inside him. Lately that hadn’t been the case.

He focused on the silent girl in front of him. Seeing the blush still on her cheeks, he chose his words carefully. “Your eyes…they’re unusual.”

She raised her head, not sure if she’d been complimented or diagnosed. She knew she wasn’t beautiful. Beautiful would have been divine. Nor was she ugly. Ugly would have been, at least, interesting. She was plain. Bland as unbuttered macaroni. Except for her eyes. But they were so at odds with the rest of her physical appearance that instead of rescuing her, they only served to confirm that even the gods sometimes made mistakes.

She knew all this before Brady fixed his gaze on her and offered a compliment in the same tone he might use to note the discovery of a rare disease. She also knew how ridiculous she was, imagining his presence here was for any reason other than that she had the most beautiful flowers in Tyler and several miles beyond.

“So what kind of an arrangement would you like to send?” Eden moved the conversation back to business, where it belonged.

He looked at the buckets of eucalyptus and narcissus, the stiff stalks of delphiniums, the clusters of daffodils curving beneath the weight of closed buds. “I want something exotic.” He waved the hands that healed. “Something exciting.”

She didn’t realize she’d sighed aloud until he glanced at her. She covered with a bright smile and a light voice that teased, “Don’t we all?”

His expression went from curious to uncertain. “I suppose.” He moved to inspect the aluminum shelves of vases and foam-filled containers lining the far wall.

His back was to her, yet she didn’t turn to take him in. She didn’t have to. She knew without sight his back’s strong width, his shoulders’ proud slope, the faint pink where the barber had shaved the nape of his neck. She’d had a crush on him since she was eight. She’d been crossing to the park and tripped on the curb. Instead of laughing at her like the other older boys hanging out in the square had done, he’d come and helped her up, asked her if she was all right, his face serious and already adult as he examined her knees. From that moment her heart had been his, even though her head knew her fantasies were futile.

Then he had come into her flower shop late one night over a month ago.

She heard him move. The temptation became too great, and she turned and looked at him. She’d been born without beauty, but every day she created it, surrounded herself with it, gave it to others. Most of all she knew when it was before her.

It was before her now. She looked at him and, for a moment, was adrift.

She looked away before he caught her. As well as she knew beauty, she also knew what she created often fell short of reality, what she craved could never be completely hers.

He asked about a vase. She walked to where he stood.

“This one?” She took the vase off the shelf, its weight cool against her palms. “It has lovely lines, don’t you think? And the size, the balance of the body is certainly strong enough to hold its own with the most exotic mixtures.”

He touched the vase in her hands and nodded approval.

“I hope these exciting flowers aren’t for a patient with a heart condition or high blood pressure.” She kept the conversation friendly. They were, after all, friends. It would have to be enough.

He smiled. She was pleased. He didn’t smile enough. His brows often pulled low as if weighted with worry. Two deep lines angled above his nose, creating a constant stern impression. Some nights, though, she would make small jokes and small talk, and the lines on his face would smooth.

“Actually, these flowers aren’t for a patient at all.”

“No?” She walked to the design table, the vase heavy in her hands. A woman? Why not? Brady and his brothers had inspired more female fantasies within the town limits of Tyler than George Clooney and a case of Asti Spumante combined. But the two other brothers had both married within the past four months, leaving only one single Spencer brother—Brady—to fight off the wily women of Tyler. Eden had no doubt Brady’s bachelor days were numbered.

“The flowers are for a nurse.”

Of course.

“Cece Baron.”

“Cece Baron?” Eden’s quiet voice went an octave higher.

He glanced at her curiously. “You know, Jeff’s wife.”

Eden did know. Cece was the nursing supervisor at Worthington House, and together with Jeff, Tyler General’s chief of staff, had seven-year-old twin girls.

“Don’t you think your boss is going to have something to say if his wife starts receiving bouquets of flowers from a secret admirer?”

“I hope so.”

She frowned. “You’re sure about this?”

“Definitely, after I saw Cece sitting in Jeff’s office today, waiting for him. She was looking at a family picture Jeff has in his office—I think it was taken at his younger sister Liza’s wedding. Cece was crying.”

Eden’s frown deepened.

“She put on a big smile when she saw me, but she knew I’d seen her. She’d said she was being silly. That between her work and Jeff’s schedule and the twins, she couldn’t expect things to be like they once were between her and her husband.”

“Like they once were?”

“Crazy, wild in love, passionate, head-over-heels, you know.” Brady spoke with a doctor’s detachment.

Eden didn’t know, but she nodded, anyway.

“Cece finally told me Jeff and she had made a lunch date, just the two of them. Some ‘together’ time to try and put a little magic back in the marriage. She’d waited forty-five minutes before she’d found out he’d left the hospital an hour ago to take some prospective donors to lunch to discuss building a new imaging facility. He’d forgotten about their date. ‘Imagine,’ she’d said. ‘Stood up by your own husband. How humiliating is that?’ But she made me promise not to tell him she was there. Said it’d only upset him, and she was already worried enough about his stress level.”

Eden’s features relaxed. “But she didn’t make you promise not to send an anonymous arrangement of flowers that she might assume was an apology from her husband?”

Brady smiled. “Let’s send one to Jeff, too. Maybe that’ll put a little mystique back into the marriage.” She heard an uncustomary excitement in his voice. He looked away, and if Eden didn’t know better, she would’ve sworn Tyler General’s most unflappable surgeon was suddenly self-conscious.

“It’s a lovely thought,” she assured him, hoping to ease his discomfort.

“Unsigned, of course.” His voice was even once again. He returned his gaze to her.

“Of course.” She wondered if he’d ever believe that his vulnerability didn’t make him weak, merely human.

“If the chief of staff knew one of his surgeons was playing Cupid, well, you can imagine how that would go over at the monthly staff meetings.”

“Of course.” She always agreed. It was part of the ritual. He walked around the shop, his briefcase gripped in his right hand and his steps brisk. His left hand tapped the curved sales counter, made a wrought-iron birdcage sway, asserted control over his surroundings.

“What about these?” He tapped on the cooler’s door, his nose inches from the glass. “These white things in the corner. What are they?”

“Calla lilies. Special order received today. They’re lovely, don’t you think?”

“They look exotic enough.”

“Oh, they are. Add nothing more than some camellia leaves or laurel, and you’ve got yourself a beautiful bouquet.” She studied the oversize blooms. “They’d also be stunning mixed with white French tulips and paperwhites.”

Brady nodded as if he knew what she was talking about. They both knew he had no idea.

“Put a big bow around the vase,” he said. It was a voice that suffered no fools, especially himself. He had a reputation as one of the best doctors around and also one of the most demanding. Eden suspected, however, he was hardest on himself.

“Always a big bow.”

“Good.” He smiled, satisfied.

Now that wasn’t so painful, was it? she thought as if she were the doctor and he, the patient.

“Charge it to my card as usual.” Business done, he turned to go. He was a busy man. Too busy, Eden thought. The first night he’d lingered, asking irrelevant questions as if needing to talk. One night she might coax him to again stay longer, sit with her, have a cup of tea, but not tonight. Tonight she wasn’t brave enough, and he wasn’t calm enough.

“Eden?” He’d turned, catching her studying him.

“Yes?” She dropped her gaze to the table, pretending to inspect the arrangement.

“Thank you.”

She looked at him.

“You’re…” He cleared his throat. “You’re swell.” He turned, went through the arch and was gone.

Swell? Eden stared at the doorway. She looked back at the splay of flowers before her on the table. She twisted a peony to the left for balance. “Swell?” She spoke to the flowers. The peony’s heavy head bobbed as if confirming.

She circled the arrangement, her practiced eye checking the line, color, rhythm.

“Is that what he told that sleek blonde he had dinner with at the Old Heigelburg a few weeks ago? And what about that big-chested, big-haired brunette spoon-feeding him Marge’s apple pie not two days later at the diner? I suppose she was swell, too?”

The flowers were silent as if knowing the answer as well as she did. With Brady’s movie-star looks, commanding presence and dark charm, it was no secret that the patients of Tyler General weren’t the only ones who sought out the doctor’s renowned skills. His success with single women was as well-known as his acclaimed professional reputation.

Yet Eden knew she was the only one with whom Brady had shared the secret of his anonymous good deeds. The thought made her smile. It also made her feel special. Not beautiful or exciting like the flowers he chose or the many women he dated. But she felt privileged to share a side of Brady Spencer that no one else knew or even suspected. No, it wasn’t love or passion, a far cry from that, but still it was something.

She misted the flowers and carried them to a draped pedestal in the front window. “Don’t worry, Dr. Spencer.” The room was quiet except for the hum of the lights and the gurgle of the fish tank. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

SWELL? Brady walked down the thin alley between the flower shop and the beauty salon. He was a highly trained, skilled surgeon. Why was he talking like some jug-eared kid with a cowlick? He reached the street and turned toward the condominium complex where he lived.

It was Eden, he decided. Eden with her innocence, her guileless smile, her wonderful world so removed from the reality he knew. He stepped into The Garden, and he was eleven again—insecure, confused, wanting—all beneath a facade of bravado and bluster.

He stopped to cross at the corner, already recognizing the restlessness that would have him prowling around his efficient, empty condo until early-morning hours. His apartment was close to the hospital, and he often walked the short distance no matter the weather. In fact, battling the winter cold and winds gave him as much satisfaction as strolling in the sun. This year, though, spring had come unusually early. The record-warm March had melted the snows and muddied the ground and brought out others not so brave or belligerent to walk the icy streets like Brady.

There was no traffic but he hadn’t crossed. He sighed, turning almost automatically toward the hospital and the piles of paperwork that might quell his unrest. He saw Martha Bauer on the arm of her daughter, Anna Kelsey, coming up the street. Even from a block away, Martha’s blue eyes pinned him.

He strode toward the women, seeing no reason for concern. If they’d seen him coming out of the alley next to The Garden of Eden, they’d probably assume he’d taken a shortcut home from the hospital.

“Good evening, ladies.” He greeted them a half block away, his smile sociable but his steps smart.

“You’re turning in the wind like a weathervane, Doc.”

Martha’s eyes held him fast, slowed his step. “I’ve never known you to lose your way.” The old woman’s smile was as sharp as her gaze. “Or to admit it, at least.”

Martha’s daughter, Anna, looked apologetically at Brady, her eyes the same blue as her mother’s, only softer. “Now Dr. Spencer knows why all his other patients at Worthington House have high blood pressure.”

Brady continued to smile pleasantly, professionally. “I’m not lost,” he assured Martha. “Just on my way back to the hospital to catch up on some paperwork.”

Martha studied him. “You always were the most serious son.”

“I thought I was the most charming one,” Brady deadpanned.

The older woman folded her arms across her chest. “When are you going to settle down and get married like your brothers?”

“Mom!” Anna shook her head, the evening light blending the gray in her dark hair.

“What? No more single Spencer men in Tyler?” Brady smiled. “The place would become a ghost town.”

“No more single Spencer men in Tyler?” A glint had appeared in Martha’s blue eyes. “Are you telling me something I don’t know about your father and Lydia Perry?”

Brady eyed the elderly woman. “Is there something I should know about my father and Lydia? The Quilting Circle hasn’t started a new quilt, have they?”

Martha studied him as if trying to determine if he was teasing or serious.

“Brady, did Quinn and Molly tell you how much my grandson, Jeremy, adores Sara?” Anna diplomatically changed the subject. “They’re inseparable at Kaity’s Kids.”

Brady’s smile widened at the mention of his brother’s new wife and her daughter. “I agree with Jeremy one hundred percent. Sara is a charming child. Pure adorable.”

“And it won’t be long before Seth and Jenna will be bringing new little ones to the Spencer Sunday dinners, will it?”

Brady nodded. “Jenna is due in May.”

“Imagine, twins.” Anna shook her head again.

“Humph,” Martha sounded. “Elias will never be the same.”

Brady had to agree. Everything was changing. After many years, the somber Spencer family home stretching along Maple Street was again hearing the sound of children’s laughter, the song of women’s voices.

Martha’s gaze remained on Brady. “So, why aren’t you dating anyone, Doc?”

“I’m dating, Martha. As much and as many as I can.”

The old lady smiled slyly. “Spring is in the air, Brady Spencer.” She gestured toward the flowers displayed in The Garden of Eden’s front windows. “Good time to stop and smell the roses.”

He looked at the flowers in the soft light, thought of Eden’s thin, white hands arranging them until they were even more perfect. Past the shop windows it was dark except for the fish tank’s purplish glow and the low light from the cooler. Eden must’ve gone up to her apartment over the store for the night.

“Eden’s a good girl, isn’t she?” Martha asked. He stepped back from the window, but it was too late. His study of the store hadn’t gone unnoticed by the old woman.

He carefully composed his reply. “She seems like a nice person.”

Martha’s eyes narrowed. “You know her, don’t you?”

“Sure, everybody knows Eden.”

Martha tilted her head back, her gaze gaining new power. “She could be easy to overlook. She’s not flashy and noisy like some I’ve seen. She’s the kind of girl that lets a man hear the sound of his own breath.”

“Mom,” Anna interrupted, “we’re keeping the good doctor from his work.” She again smiled apologetically at Brady.

Martha’s gaze never left Brady. “I think I’ll keep an eye on you, Doc.”

Brady knew the elderly woman’s sharp tongue protected a soft heart. He knew because it was a tactic he himself had mastered. “If somebody’s got to, Martha, I’m glad it’s you.” He leaned over and kissed the woman’s cheek, felt the precarious thinness of flesh.

He stepped back, concealing his own surprise at his behavior. Martha touched her cheek, but snorted with indignation. “It should be someone with a lot fewer years and a lot more agreeable. Someone like—”

“C’mon, Mom.” Anna hooked her arm through her mother’s. “If we don’t get you back by bingo, the home will be calling in Deputy Cooper. Nice seeing you, Brady.”

“You too, Anna. Tell Johnny I said hello.”

“Can I tell him you said he should go easy on those onion rings when the Dairy King opens for the season next month?”

With relief, Brady returned to his professional role. “With his hiatal hernia, the chili dogs, too.”

Anna glanced at Martha. “And maybe egg substitutes and a little less bacon for Mom at those Sunday breakfasts at the diner? Her last blood workup showed her cholesterol was high.”

“Couldn’t hurt.” He looked at Martha. “No sense courting heart disease.”

“If you’re in such a big hurry to get me home, why are we still standing around here flapping our jaws?” Martha snapped at her daughter.

“No wonder he’s not settled down yet,” the old woman was still grumbling as she and Anna crossed to the square. “He’s too busy making sure the good citizens of Tyler live long, unhappy lives.”

Brady watched the women walk away. Even after they disappeared behind the oak trees, he stood, trying to figure out what had prompted his sudden show of affection. He wasn’t one given to spontaneous gestures…until lately. He shook his head. At times he didn’t understand himself anymore.

He looked up. The windows above the flower shop were covered with lace, the light past them tinted pearl-pink. He took a deep breath, swore he smelled heaven once more before he started toward the hospital.

The security guard glanced up as the double glass doors to the hospital’s main lobby slid open. The regular entrance to the brick annex where most of the doctors had their offices was locked after hours to save on security costs. The guard nodded at Brady. “Thought your day was done, Doc.”

Brady only had to say one word. “Paperwork.”

The guard nodded again. “The modern man’s burden.”

“You have a good evening now.” Brady headed down the corridor. His encounter with Martha had scared him off small talk for the night.

The hall was windowless, lit by fluorescent tubes in the ceiling that made shadows seem to disappear and turned faces hard. He said hello as he passed a cleaning lady. The floor was bland asphalt tiles. The walls were a faded mauve.

He turned into another, shorter hall that led to a tunnel connecting the smaller professional center to the hospital. At the tunnel’s end, he took the stairs to the second floor. He inserted his key card into the door and went into the empty waiting room. He passed reception, the records room, examining rooms, the offices of the other doctors in the practice before coming to his own. He unlocked the door, seeing the charts piled on top of the corner file cabinet. Several white lab jackets on wire hangers hung from the coatrack next to the cabinet. The blinds were drawn. Beneath the room’s only window was a sofa he’d never rested on.

He set down his briefcase and grabbed a handful of charts. Sitting at his desk, he took a microcassette recorder and some pens and pencils out of the top drawer.

He looked at the charts before him and heaved a deep breath. Heaven was gone. Here, even behind the office’s closed door, he could only smell the bitter scent of sickness, the false lemon of antiseptic.

He’d thought he would get used to it. He never had. Each time, whether in his office or the operating room, it was still a shock—the compressed smells, the soundless slice into skin, the easy break of bone. It scared the hell out of him. But what had scared him the most was his own fear—the feeling of being vulnerable, not in control. And so, he’d had no choice but to specialize in surgery.

He opened a chart but didn’t look at it. The walls of his office were the same nonthreatening color as throughout the hospital. The lighting was surreal. The linens in the exam rooms and everywhere else were an innocuous white. The beds were metal. The gowns were thin and fashioned to expose.

He thought of the flower shop with its color, its life, and suddenly he longed for its quiet. It wasn’t the eerie quiet of the hospital but a calm, content silence. A quiet one would imagine to be in the paradise The Garden was named after.

He’d gone there on a whim. That had been the beginning, the first spontaneous act in an otherwise orderly life. It had been the soulless month of February. He’d been walking home, tired, frustrated, wondering if there was a world where there were no Februarys. He’d been thinking of a patient, a woman all alone, old, frail, arthritis ballooning her fingers, curving them at odd angles so that even holding a cup became a feat.

She’d come in with a hip fracture and her whole life in a worn black leather pocketbook. Her history showed several ministrokes. She’d be transferred to a nursing home as soon as a bed opened up. All day, through rounds, meetings, consultations, Brady had thought of that woman, sitting alone in her thin-mattressed bed, staring, her mauve walls bare as she moved more toward death than life. They’d done all they could for her medically. Still he’d wanted to do more. Some would say he did enough every day with his prescriptions and sutures and killer smile. For him, it wasn’t enough any longer.

That evening he’d walked the few blocks from the hospital to home, passing The Garden of Eden. In the front windows there’d been flowers from winter-whites and palest pastels to summer brights and heady deep tones the color of ecstasy. He’d stopped. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the lipstick-red so startling at the ends of the tulips’ yellow petals. Maybe it was the spray of baby’s breath like the first snow. Maybe it was nothing more than to stand somewhere and see only color and life. He had no reason, but he went to the door. Just to look around inside a few minutes, he had told himself as he’d turned the knob. It had been locked, but as he turned to go, the door had opened. Eden had seen him at the windows and had unlocked the door. Finally he was inside, his steps too quick, the charcoal-gray of his suit too drab. Yet the scents lured him, kept him long. And there’d been Eden with her own soft style and extraordinary eyes. She had said a few words in her quiet way, then leaned toward him as if only wanting to listen. And he, who never revealed, had told her about the elderly patient alone in the empty, faded room. By the time he’d left, he’d ordered an extravagant arrangement to be sent anonymously to the woman. He’d also felt better than he could ever remember.

The next day he’d stopped by the shop again after hours and had another lavish bouquet sent to the woman, then another and another, filling her room with flowers until even the other patients, visitors and nurses stopped as they passed and sighed with pleasure.

The woman had died at the end of the week—pneumonia complications—but Brady knew she had died surrounded by life and color and beauty and the thought that somebody cared. She hadn’t died like his mother, her smile not being seen again by those who needed to see it most.

Now Brady sent flowers almost every other day. There was always someone alone or sick or with a heavy heart. The deliveries were never signed. The flowers were always ordered after hours. Brady wouldn’t jeopardize his patients’ confidence or the hospital staff’s respect by being anything other than the strong, sensible, self-sufficient surgeon they expected. He had learned at the age of eleven never to expose your weaknesses. And he never had…until he’d gone to Eden.




Chapter Two


Cookies. Brady smelled cookies. Mixed in with the rose and the lavender, the sandalwood and the gardenia, there was cinnamon, melting sugar and a richness so dense, the air around him seemed thick.

“Eden,” he called, his voice sounding slow and full in the fat air.

“Hello, Brady.”

He looked to the right, past the deep stainless steel sink and the crowded shelves to the stairs that led to the second floor. On the landing two big fuzzy bumblebees, their antennae bobbing, greeted him. From the whimsical slippers, Eden’s thin, bare legs stretched up like lollipop sticks into baggy shorts beneath an oversize cotton shirt. Her hair was pulled back, twisted up high and tight into a knot, except for two ends that had broken free. They stuck up like the rabbit ears children sneak behind another’s head in a photo. She came down the stairs fast and, at the bottom, paused, panting. She smiled, a faint pink in her cheeks and her eyes the deep purple of dawn. He wanted to kiss her so badly, he could almost taste her like the promise of cookies that came down the stairwell. He wanted to take her right there on the softly lit stairs with the swirl of smells around them.

Great. He’d gone from leering at Eden to seeing her stretched out, waiting for him on the staircase. Guilt grabbed him, gave him a hard shake. Shame came next. This was Eden—sweet, awkward Eden who taught the ladies auxiliary how to make balsam wreaths for the Christmas bazaar and made sure Guy Teator, the oldest resident of Worthington House but still the snappiest dresser in Tyler, always had a fresh boutonniere, free of charge.

She was in no way the type of woman that normally drew his attention. He preferred a more sophisticated type of woman. A woman with more curves, with artfully curled hair and carefully chosen clothes. A worldly, ambitious woman who enjoyed a relationship based on mutual respect and physical pleasures. A woman who didn’t expect a long-term commitment.

Eden wasn’t that type of woman.

He saw her spindly legs, her knees as he’d imagined, hard and round as apples picked too early. No, Eden was the opposite of the woman he usually dated.

Eden was the type of girl who’d fall in love.

He was staring again. Eden looked at her oversize bee slippers. Could she blame him? Had she really imagined desire in those jade green eyes? This had to stop. She had to stop.

Yet she said, “I baked cookies.”

“I shouldn’t have come.” He spoke in the tone of a man who was listened to, but he was leaning on the edge of the sink where the flowers were processed. “It’s too late. I’ve kept you up.”

“They’re oatmeal chocolate butterscotch.” A buzzer sounded from the second floor. “Oops, there’s the timer.” She turned and trotted up the steps. Brady hesitated, then followed those fuzzy yellow feet up the stairs.

The door at the top opened into a blue and white kitchen. Cookies cooled on the counter, the heat and smells welcoming him as if he’d come home.

Eden switched off the timer and opened the oven door. More heat and smells came like a child’s hungry dream, and, at that moment, Brady couldn’t think of anything more wonderful than warm oatmeal chocolate butterscotch cookies.

Eden straightened, the cookie sheet in her gloved hand, her face flushed, her eyes bright from the heat. He’d seen a similar look on women before, but they hadn’t been baking. They’d been in his bed.

He looked away. He was irredeemable. There was only one thing that could save him, that had always saved him. He looked at Eden. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He was saved.

“You can sit down and eat as many of these cookies as possible before I do.” She blew at a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead and smiled at him.

He saw the rows of cookies cooling on the wire racks. Since lunch he’d only had three large cups of black coffee and a cranberry juice grabbed off a nutrition cart on its way to the floors. He took off his suit jacket, hung it evenly across the kitchen chair’s high back. “I could do that.”

She set a ceramic plate piled with cookies in the center of the round table and a smaller matching plate before him. “Something to drink?”

He leaned back, a content man. Her hand, covered with the oversize pot holder, jerked away from the back of his chair where it’d been resting. He glanced up at her.

She looked at him with her dark-violet eyes and her delicate smile. Her hand covered with the plaid pot holder was now gripping the other, bare one.

“Tea?” she offered, taking another step back.

He hated tea. “Tea would be great.” He pushed back his chair. “But let me help you.”

“No, no.” Her hands flew apart and patted the air above his shoulders. “You sit.”

She moved about the kitchen, filling the bright-red teakettle and setting it back on the stove, opening the stenciled cupboard, standing on her tiptoes and reaching up to the tea boxes on the upper shelf.

“Let’s see, I’ve got orange pekoe, cinnamon apple, peppermint…” She looked over her shoulder at him.

“Whatever you prefer.”

Her gaze moved to his empty plate, then back to him. “Eat, Brady.” Her voice was low and coaxing; her smile quiet. She waited until he reached for the cookie plate before turning back to the tea boxes.

“Mmm, orange pekoe, I think.” She opened another cupboard, took out two brightly colored mugs, shook a tea bag into each. On the stove, the kettle steamed.

Brady looked around the tiny kitchen as full of colors and patterns and shapes as the store below. Hand-painted plates hung on one wall. A vine was about to flower on the scalloped shelf above the sink. More flowers twined on a grapevine arched above the door and poked from the terra-cotta pots scattered around the room. Home Sweet Home was stenciled on the dish towels that hung from the oven door handle. Through the doorway that led into the next room, he saw peach-colored walls and a framed Norman Rockwell print. Eden was humming. She set a ceramic cow milk pitcher and a matching sugar bowl on the table. Next to them she placed a plastic bear of honey.

“Or do you prefer lemon?” she asked.

Definitely the marrying type. He shook his head. The uneaten cookie still waited in his hand.

A fat tangle of fur sauntered in from the next room.

“There you are, Penelope.” Eden set a steaming mug smelling of orange and cloves in front of Brady. “Come and say hello to Dr. Spencer.”

The cat stopped in the doorway and stared at Brady, as if reading his every thought.

“So…” Eden sat at the table, her mug cupped in her hands. “You had a late emergency?”

He nodded. The cat stared at him, its pupils narrow. The cookie was going cold in his hand. He took a bite and was ruined forever for any baked goods that came cellophane wrapped.

He finished the cookie in two bites and reached for more. He saw Eden watching him. “These are great.”

“Thank you.” She dropped her gaze, blew across the tea’s surface, but Brady could see she was smiling. She glanced up. The tiny smile was still there. “Have some more.”

Brady chewed. Definitely the marrying type. He glanced at the cat eyeing him. The cookies stuck in his throat. He picked up the mug beside his plate and took a large sip. He hated tea.

Eden lifted her own mug and sipped. “Good, huh?”

He swished the liquid in his mouth and gulped it down. “Delicious.”

Her smile widened, the corners of her eyes lifting. The steam from the cup warmed her face, made her eyes gleam. She had flawless skin, smooth as cream, meant to be touched.

He took a big bite of cookie and focused on the flavors blending in his mouth. He refused to look at Penelope.

“Was it very serious?” Eden asked. “The emergency?”

“Appendectomy. Routine procedure,” he said through a mouthful of cookie, “but the patient had been taking aspirin all day for the abdomen pain, and his blood was thinned out. Gave us some trouble clotting, but we got it under control. It just took a while longer.”

He took a bite of cookie and chewed. “You know…” He pointed the cookie at her. “You could take over the world with these cookies.”

She tipped her head back and laughed. She didn’t often laugh so loud and full. Not that she was grim. Not at all. It was just that silent smiles were more her style. This was nice, Brady decided, sitting here in this cozy kitchen, eating homemade cookies, listening to the sweet sound of Eden’s laughter.

“I mean it,” he said. “One bite would make the mightiest, meanest men your slaves.”

Her laughter continued. He watched it ripple up her throat’s long length, thinking how white and tender the skin was there.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft, warm weight landing in his lap. “What the—?”

“Penelope, where’s your manners?” Eden scolded. “Get down off Dr. Spencer this minute.”

Staring up at Brady, Penelope blinked her wide-set eyes once and plopped dead center in his lap.

“Penelope Maybelle Patterson.” Eden sprang up, clapping her hands as she rounded the table. Penelope gave Brady one final slitted look, then slid off his lap.

“Shame on you. Getting cat hair all over Brady’s expensive suit.” Eden swiped at Brady’s pant legs.

One brush of her hands across the length of his thighs and he felt the low, beginning heat of desire. He looked at her. Penelope stared at her, too.

Realizing the intimacy of her touch, Eden stopped. Her face colored. As she straightened, she met Brady’s stare and froze, her color deepening.

He smiled the smile used to reassure anxious patients. “You surprise me, Eden.”

“I do?” It was a whisper, her vivid-colored eyes wide.

“Do you give all your pets full names?”

A smile started. “Don’t you?” She went back to her seat. A little more of her smile returned, but when she picked up her tea, she had to grip the mug with both hands.

“Except for the occasional frog or lightning bug, I never had any pets.”

“None?”

“Seth had a collie once when we were young, but it got loose and ran away. About a week later my dad was driving us to the fishing derby up at Timber Lake, and we saw the collie lying on the side of the road. A car had hit him.” His gaze moved past her. “We never had any more pets after that.”

He picked up his mug and took a sip. He really hated tea.

“I didn’t have any brothers or sisters.” Eden was still holding her mug too tightly. “For my parents, after twenty-two years of trying to have children without success, I was a total surprise. A nice one, they always assured me, but after all that time when it’d only been the two of them, I definitely disrupted their lives. Anyway, I guess I always thought of my pets as real people, the brothers and sisters I’d never had.”

Brady thought of his own brothers, how close they’d always been—especially after their mother had left them. Not that they ever talked about what happened. Their father had forbidden it. There’d been twenty-three years of silence until a few months ago when his father had relented and given Cooper Night Hawk permission to look into his wife’s whereabouts. It was Coop who had found out Violet had died in childbirth seven months after she ran off with another man.

Brady looked into Eden’s eyes and cleared his throat. “I guess I should order the flowers I want to send.”

She straightened the platter of cookies, pushing it closer to him. “There’s plenty of time. Have another cookie.”

He picked up a fifth cookie.

“Let me get you a fresh cup of tea.” She reached across the table for his mug. “Maybe cinnamon apple this time?”

He saw the concern in her extraordinary eyes. “That’d be great.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, his behavior once more surprising him. It wasn’t an unpleasant surprise though. He didn’t even want to analyze it. He only wanted to watch Eden as she moved around the kitchen. Her face was still tinged with pink, and soon she was humming again. Not an unpleasant surprise at all.

She turned on the burner under the kettle and came back to the table. She looked at him, her hands grasping the edge of her chair. “We’ll sit and drink some tea, eat some cookies, and you can tell me all about your day.”

WHICH WAS PRECISELY what he did, Brady thought as he walked to the hospital the next morning. It had been almost midnight by the time he’d left Eden’s and returned to his condo. He’d slept like a drunken man. Too much sugar, he’d decided.

He sidestepped a puddle. The temperatures had stayed defiantly warm, reducing winter to no more than black patches of soggy soil or an occasional wet stain on the sidewalk. The birds had come home. Women once again wore skirts and short-sleeved shirts baring long stretches of skin. The men walked slower, steadier. Even Brady’s steps this morning weren’t the usual military march but almost approached a stroll. He’d decided to take the long way around the town square. When he spied Cooper coming out of Marge’s Diner, a scowl on his face, it didn’t seem possible anyone could be unhappy on this sun-warmed morning.

“Coop.”

The town deputy turned, his natural Native American looks made even more dramatic by his brooding expression. He was considered a fourth son to the Spencer family not because of his physical looks but because of the strong emotional bonds between him and the Spencer men. Seeing Brady, he smiled. Still his dark-brown eyes were somber.

Brady smiled at his family’s best friend. “Kinda early to look so mean. What happened? Did Marge run out of blueberry pancakes before you got there?”

“Now you know that has never happened in the history of Tyler. And probably never will, God willing.” Coop’s guarded gaze assessed the doctor. “You seem awful happy for a man whose boss is watching him right now, probably wondering why you’re wasting time harassing Tyler’s finest when you should be at work.”

Through the diner’s front windows, Brady saw Jeff Baron seated in one of the red vinyl booths lining the walls. Beside him was Cece. They were both smiling as they waved. Brady waved back, his own grin widening. He was about to turn back to Coop when he noticed the new waitress, Caroline Benning, staring at him from behind the counter. They’d formally met at the Christmas Eve party up at the Timberlake Lodge. He raised his hand to wave hello, but she looked away and began refilling the coffee cups of the diners that occupied every seat at the L-shaped counter.

“That new girl—”

“Caroline Benning.” Coop stopped smiling.

“She seems like a nice kid.” The two men started walking toward the center of town.

“She’s hiding something.”

Brady stopped, looked curiously at Coop.

“I can’t prove anything yet. It’s a feeling I’ve got. That woman has secrets.”

“We all have secrets, Coop.” Brady tried to restore his friend’s earlier smile.

“Maybe, but that lady has a big secret. I can feel it in my gut.”

Brady’s surprise increased. Everyone knew Coop was a man who believed in facts, not intuition or other intangible feelings.

“Don’t tell me you’re listening to all that gossip still going round?”

“I’m not the one who was found tangled up in the shrubs outside your dad’s house,” Coop pointed out as the two men passed the law firm where Brady’s brother, Quinn, was a partner.

“She said she was trying to catch a stray cat,” Brady noted.

“Then where was the cat?”

“Obviously, she didn’t catch it.”

“Obviously, there was no cat.”

“C’mon, Coop.” The two men turned onto Maple, nodded hello to Annabelle Scanlon opening up the post office. “What deep, dark secret could Caroline Benning possibly be hiding?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

Brady didn’t doubt it. Coop was good at finding things out. It’d taken him less than two months to find out about Violet’s death. Less than two months to answer the question Brady had secretly wondered for twenty-three years: When is my mother coming home? Now he knew. Never.

“Don’t you trust anybody?” Brady asked.

Coop looked at him, one dark brow arching. They both knew it was the pot calling the kettle black. “Occupational hazard, Doc.”

They walked a few more steps. Coop shrugged. “Maybe I’m wrong.”

Brady saw the strong set of Coop’s profile and knew the other man didn’t believe he was mistaken about Caroline Benning.

“No wonder you haven’t found your Woman of the River yet,” Brady said, referring to the local story of Coop’s ancestor and namesake, Night Hawk, whose dream of a hawk eventually led him to his own true love. “You think every woman you meet is Mata Hari.”

Coop shifted his impenetrable gaze to Brady. Everyone knew the story of Coop’s ancestor. Everyone also knew Coop believed the legend was just that—a legend. Nothing more.

“It’s bad enough every time I see your brothers, I have to listen to them go on about the wonders of married life and watch them get all sentimental and sloppy,” he said, “but at least I thought I could count on you to stay sane and steer clear of all this mush.”

He glanced down at the flowered canister Brady was carrying. Some of his smile returned. “But what can I expect from a man who spends his free time making cookies for the hospital bake sale?”

“Bake sale? These cookies are mine, and I’m not sharing them with anyone, so stop angling for a handout.”

Coop studied the tin. “Must be pretty special cookies. When did you take home ec?”

“I didn’t make these cookies. They were given to me by a friend.”

“I see…” Coop mused, contemplating the tin.

Brady saw his friend’s speculative gaze. “What now, Columbo?”

Coop looked at him. “When did you start going for the Betty Crocker type? All the women I’ve seen you with are serious career gals whose idea of a gourmet meal comes with a waiter.”

“I didn’t say I was dating this woman. I said we were friends.”

Coop laughed, dismissing Brady’s answer.

Brady stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “You don’t believe me?”

“Sure, I believe you.” Laughter was still traced in the strong lines of the young man’s face.

“No, you don’t.” Brady’s good mood was fading.

Coop eyed the canister. “You’re not going to give me a cookie now, are you?”

Unsmiling, Brady lifted the tin’s lid and grudgingly held out the cookies. Coop took a handful. He tipped his head in the direction of First Street. “Gotta go. See you Sunday at your dad’s.”

Brady nodded. Coop started toward the police substation. Brady knew the other man’s skepticism was justified. Brady’s many relationships with women weren’t for friendship. They were for fun, relaxation and mutually agreed-on good, clean sex. No strings, no soul searching, no complications. It was the way he—and the women he dated—preferred it. In fact, he maintained a comfortable distance in all his personal and professional relationships.

Except for Eden. She had only to tilt her head and smile and it seemed he had no secrets. It had never been that way with anyone before.

“Hey, Brady,” Coop called. Chewing, he held up a half-eaten cookie. “Marry this woman.” With a rare laugh, he turned and continued down First Street.

MOLLY SPENCER balanced a stuffed rabbit in each hand. “These bunnies are so cute. When did you get them in?”

“Just yesterday.” Eden came over to the wicker étagère. “There’ll be more coming in a few days.”

Molly put one bunny down and took a cookie from the plate Eden offered. “Good thing Sara isn’t with me. She’d want one in every color.” She pressed a butter-yellow bunny to her cheek. “I don’t think I can resist this one, though. I’ll put it away for her Easter basket.”

“Goodness, they are adorable,” Anna Kelsey agreed as she joined the women. She picked up a sky-blue bunny. “You have the nicest things, Eden. And the loveliest shop. So pleasant. Not to mention these fabulous cookies,” she added as she took one. “It’s so generous of you to make the floral decorations for Jenna’s baby shower.”

“It’s my pleasure. Why don’t we sit and have a cup of tea?” She indicated the small wrought-iron table and chairs in the corner. Nearby a tea cart offered all the fixings. “I’ll bring over some books for you to look at, and we can figure out exactly what colors and flowers you’d like.”

Anna looked at Molly. “Do we have time before we have to pick up the kids from Kaity’s?”

Molly glanced at her watch. “Sure, we’ve got a few minutes.”

“Good. And I think I’ll bring this little fella with me.” Anna carried the stuffed animal to the table. She smiled down into the bunny’s eyes, the same brilliant blue as her own. “I’ll save it for Jeremy’s basket.”

Molly set her purse on the chair and went to the tea cart. “Easter?” She smiled and winked at Eden. “Ten to one, Jeremy will have that bunny before lunch.”

Anna settled into a chair. “Grandma is my name. Spoiling is my game.”

Laughing, Molly brought the older woman a cup of tea.

“What?” Anna stirred sugar into her tea. “You’re trying to tell me that Sara isn’t getting spoiled by that new daddy of hers?”

A loving curve came to Molly’s lips at the mention of her new husband, Quinn.

“And what about those new uncles of hers?” Anna noted. “Why, Brady stood on that sidewalk right out there two nights ago and told me that Sara is ‘pure adorable.’” She took another cookie. “Eden, you’ve got to give me the recipe for these. They’re wonderful.”

“You saw Brady the other night?” Molly sat down at the table.

“Let me get those books to give you some ideas what we can do for Jenna’s shower,” Eden suggested.

Anna nodded in response to Molly’s question. “Yes. My mother had come over for pot roast, and it was such a lovely evening, Mom insisted on walking back to Worthington House. Eighty-seven, and I swear the woman has more energy than a teenager.” Anna sipped her tea. “She doesn’t miss a trick, either.”

“We haven’t seen much of Brady lately.” Molly tapped her spoon on the edge of the cup, then set it on the saucer. “He doesn’t dare miss Sunday night dinners at Quinn’s father’s, of course. Elias would write him out of the will. But even then he seems, well, preoccupied. Quinn says that’s just Brady.” She broke a cookie in half. “Of course, he knows him better than I, but I still say something’s bothering him.”

“You know, the other night he did seem a little odd.” Anna nibbled on a cookie. “He appeared out of nowhere. Came out of the alley right next to the shop here. Scared the pudding out of me. Didn’t faze Mom a bit. Just gave her more ammo to tease him with.”

Eden returned to the table with several books. “Why don’t we start with these? There’s some wonderful ideas in them, but I have more books if you don’t see anything you like here.”

“What was he doing in the alley?” Molly took a book from the top of the stack but didn’t open it.

“He didn’t say,” Anna replied. “I assumed he was on his way home from the hospital. He walks all the time no matter what the weather.” Anna smiled at Eden. “He didn’t stop in here to pick out some posies, did he?”

Eden opened the book Molly had selected and pointed to a picture. “Do you like this? See how the baskets are made to look like cradles?”

“Brady in a flower shop?” Molly smiled. “Wouldn’t that be something like a bull in a china shop?”

Anna chuckled in agreement. “I do love the boy, but we all know he’s not exactly the hearts-and-flowers type.”

“He’s a great doctor, though. He was wonderful with Sara that time she had the flu.”

“He’s one of Tyler’s best surgeons. The people around here trust him. The doctors and nurses respect him. So, he may not win Mr. Congeniality. Everybody knows beneath that no-nonsense attitude is a compassionate heart. Handholding doesn’t put people back on their feet. Although he did give Mom a big buss on the cheek the other night. I don’t know which one of them was more surprised.”

Molly looked at the other woman. “See what I mean? That’s what I’m talking about. If I hadn’t seen him lately, I wouldn’t believe it, either. But I don’t know. The man is acting peculiar.”

Anna sipped her tea. “Well, maybe not so much peculiar as—what did you say earlier—preoccupied?”

Molly nodded.

“It’s probably stress. He has a billion things on his mind, and it’s only natural he sometimes gets as absentminded as the rest of us mortals. I’m sure that’s what it was the other night when he seemed so confused.”

“Confused?” Molly questioned.

“As if he didn’t know which way he was going,” Anna explained. “He came out of the alley, turned one way, walked a few steps, stopped, started again, stopped. Then he spun around and came our way.”

“Maybe we should pick the color theme first. How about yellow or pink, blue, lavender?” Eden suggested. “Or did you have a specific flower preference?”

Molly glanced at the photo in the book opened on the table, but she said, “Quinn said Brady was born a doctor.”

“Well, he always did have a grown-up air about him, even when he was a youngster. Didn’t he, Eden?” Anna didn’t wait for a reply. “Of course, he had to grow up in a hurry. All the boys did after Violet ran off. It’s not really my place to say, but I don’t think it ever helped that Elias wouldn’t talk to them about it.”

Molly nodded. The two other women knew she was thinking of her own husband and how she’d almost lost him to the past.

“In my opinion it would’ve done those boys some good to talk about it, but Elias didn’t allow it. Violet was gone, and that was that. They had to deal with it. As the middle child, Brady always was the bridge between the two other boys, but after Violet left, he really took on the role of the family fixer. He tried to take care of everyone.” Anna glanced at Eden. “You were probably too young to remember.”

No, she remembered. She remembered the lines already etched in his brow, his face too solemn for a teen, as he’d blotted the blood off her scraped knees. She remembered him caught somewhere between boyhood and manhood, already trying to heal the world around him.

Anna chewed thoughtfully. “He’s a good man.” She looked at Eden again for confirmation.

Eden nodded.

“Mom sure gave the poor fella a heck of a time the other night.” Anna smiled at the memory. “Wanted to know when he was going to come to his senses like his brothers did and settle down, start a family.”

“I’m sure he’d have no trouble finding a candidate. Lord knows, he’s interviewed enough of them.” Molly winked at the women.

“Is that what you young people are calling it nowadays?” Anna still smiled. “From the impression I got the other night, he seems bound and determined to keep his status as the last single Spencer brother.”

“The right girl hasn’t come along yet, that’s all.” Molly touched the corners of her mouth with one of the linen napkins Eden always had folded in a small basket. “And she’s obviously not here in Tyler because he knows every available girl in town and has dated over half of them.”

“He does get around, but I bet he ends up with someone not from Tyler. Someone like that city doctor he was seeing a while back. That’s the only relationship I think he’s had that has lasted longer than a date or two.”

Molly stirred her tea. “Maybe Jenna has some friends or cousins back in New York City? You can’t get much more big city than that.”

“Well, whoever she is and wherever she comes from, I’ll bet when the right girl comes along, Dr. Brady Spencer will fall like a sack of bricks.” Anna winked at Molly. “Just like his brothers.”

Eden stood, her chair scraping against the tiles. The other women looked at her. “I’ll get you both some more tea,” she offered.

“Goodness, no.” Molly glanced at her watch. “I’d love some, but it’s almost time to pick up the kids and we haven’t even looked at the flowers.” She slid the opened book toward Anna. “This is pretty, isn’t it?”

Eden carried her cup to the cart, straightened the china, lined up the silver spoons, waited for the roil of emotions within her to calm. She knew everything the women had said was the truth. Brady may not have found the right woman yet, but when he did, she would be sophisticated and dynamic, his equal in terms of experience, affluence and professional background. She wouldn’t be a twenty-seven-year-old virgin whose most serious relationship to date had been with a cat.

“I like this with all the baby’s breath and the Easter egg colors,” Eden heard Anna say behind her.

Not that anyone in Tyler would consider that the attractive, seductive Dr. Spencer would ever be interested in someone like her. Eden tucked in the corner of a napkin. Even she knew her fantasies were ludicrous, had told herself hundreds of times. Anna and Molly would be shocked if they even suspected she entertained such thoughts. Brady Spencer and Eden Frazier? Preposterous.

“We really only need a large centerpiece for the buffet table,” Anna said, “and a few smaller arrangements for the cake table. These cradle-looking baskets Eden showed us are nice.”

“Maybe some type of floral favors? What do you think, Eden?” Molly asked.

What did she think? At that particular moment she was thinking how just once she’d like to be thought of as more than good ol’ Eden, as constant and predictable as Timber Lake’s spring rising…and about half as exciting.




Chapter Three


“We’re friends, aren’t we, Eden?”

She went still, the cookies she’d been about to put with the others in the napkin-lined basket hovering. She knew the tone. She’d known it all her life. You’re a pal, Eden…a good kid…. I can talk to you as if you were one of the guys…. You’re like a sister to me.

She glanced behind her. Brady sat at the kitchen table. He looked tired tonight. She shouldn’t have kept him so long last night, plying him with cookies and cups of tea, but she had so loved sitting across from him, hearing his voice, watching his features change, seeing him smile.

He’d come late again tonight to order another arrangement. He’d also brought back her empty cookie tin. Even before he’d grumbled about having to share the contents with half the town, she’d already suspected he hoped she would fill the tin again. She’d opened it to do just that and found first aid supplies. She’d looked questioningly at him. “My moth—” He’d caught himself and began again. “We were taught never to return a container empty.”

She’d looked at the gauze pads, the tube of triple antibiotic ointment, the box of butterfly closures.

“It’s something you can always use. You never know when you might have an emergency.”

His voice had been so earnest and sincere, she’d had to smile. Who needed diamonds and Godiva chocolates when you had sterile gauze pads in a variety of sizes?

Now Brady waited for an answer to the question he’d just asked. Despite his fatigue, his green eyes didn’t miss their mark. She put the cookies in the basket. “I like to think of you as a friend, Brady.”

She saw his features relax, and her own worries grew. She’d thought she’d been careful. Had she, somehow, revealed to Brady how attracted she was to him? Had he sensed she dreamed of more, much more than friendship? Was he now attempting to let her down easy?

“And friends who bring you first aid…well, they’re rare.” She smiled at him, trying to postpone what she feared was inevitable. She knew the routine. She’d heard it before. I like you, Eden. I really do. You’re a great girl. It’s just that I don’t like you in that way. But we can still be friends, can’t we?

She brought the basket to the table. Brady’s face was pensive, weary. She’d take friendship. Except for her fantasies, she’d never expected more.

“You look beat tonight.”

He smiled, but even his eyes now had the unfocused look of someone who needed sleep. She picked up the basket. “Why don’t we sit in the living room? You’ll be more comfortable on the couch. We can have our cookies and tea in there at the coffee table.”

She led the way into the room painted soft apricot and cozy with plants and plump pillows. She cleared off the cedar chest that had been passed on to her by her parents when they’d retired and moved to Florida. She set the basket on the chest.

“I’ll just get some plates and napkins.”

“Let me help you.”

She shook her head. “You make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

He started to sit, but when she returned, he was standing across the room, looking at the painting that leaned against the wall.

“That’s not finished yet,” she said.

“You painted this?” He picked up the canvas, held it at arm’s length and examined its vibrant color splashes, its heavy black shapes, its strong assault on the senses.

“It’s a hobby.” She dismissed the work, embarrassed and self-conscious. She set down the plates and napkins. “I’ll bet you didn’t eat anything again today. Come have a cookie.” She tried to lure him away from the painting.

“I don’t know much about art—”

“Neither do I.”

He looked at her, his eyes once again intent. “You’ve had no formal training?”

“Some appreciation classes in college, but my major was horticulture, of course. Like I said, it’s just something I do.”

“Really?” Brady looked at the painting. “I like it.”

She sat in the rocking chair next to the sofa. “You do?”

He propped the canvas against the wall and stepped back, studying the painting. “I like it a lot.” He looked at her.

Perched on the chair’s seat, she felt as if he could see right through her. She touched her throat above her buttoned collar. The kettle on the stove whistled.

She jumped up, grateful to get away from Brady’s gaze. “Tea’s ready,” she sang out too loud. “Peppermint? Cinnamon apple?”

“Peppermint’s fine,” he answered, his eyes still on her as she went into the kitchen.

She gathered the tea things and carried them on a tray back into the living room. Brady had picked up the painting again.

“Do you have any more?”

She stopped. “Any more?”

“Paintings.”

“Why?”

He smiled. It was the smile the others talked about—the smile they said could save lives.

“I’d like to see some more.”

She looked at the strong shapes, textures, the powerful mix of primary tones on the rectangle in his hands. It was a hobby, something she did when her quiet world got too quiet and the perfect balance, careful symmetry of her arrangements made her shake. She would bring out her canvases, her darkest, richest colors, and brushes so soft to the touch she had to close her eyes and rub them across her lids.

She hadn’t been allowed to paint as a child. Crayons were okay; paints were too messy for parents used to a serene, orderly household. No being loud, running, banging, acting like a baby, being silly. Not only did that type of behavior disrupt the household, but Eden could get hurt. Her mother, having longed for her for so long, had been especially overprotective, spying potential dangers everywhere. By the time Eden went to school, her natural timidness had become a deeply ingrained shyness. Uneasy around people, strange places, unfamiliar experiences, she created her own imaginary world. There she was safe.

Eventually the extreme fearfulness and shyness had shifted into a content quietness, a dignified reserve. The world she had once only envisioned in her head was now real. Flowers always bloomed, people always smiled, nothing evil or hurtful was allowed. And the quiet that had been born in her and entrenched by experience was tolerated, welcome even, and only occasionally painful.

It was then, when longing became pain, that she locked her apartment door and went to her paints. Brush in hand, she became someone else—someone wild, loud, spontaneous, shocking. She painted, and she was free.

She’d never shown the paintings to anyone.

Holding the canvas, Brady waited for her answer. The lights in his dark-brown hair were as strong as the deepest color in her painting.

She set the tray on the cedar chest. “Just a moment.”

She went into her bedroom and kneeled by the canopy bed with the Battenburg lace duvet and the Victorian doll propped against the pillows. She lifted the bedskirt and saw the canvases lying there in the dark. She pulled them out. Some were smaller than others; all were passionate and intense. The work of a woman possessed, Eden thought, sitting back on her haunches, once more hesitating.

“I like that one. That one, too.”

She started, not having heard Brady come in. She looked over her shoulder and saw him leaning against the doorjamb.

“May I?” He looked not at her but the paintings.

She stood, brushed off her creased pants. Brady, not waiting for her answer, came and stood next to her. Together they looked at the colors and contrasts and textures and shapes spread out across the floor like a madwoman’s quilt. She felt him beside her more keenly than if she were in his embrace.

He picked up a smaller one and brushed off the dust that clung to its thick edges. “Why do you hide them under your bed?”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “They’re only a hobby.”

They both knew they were much more than that.

He turned the canvas over. “You don’t sign them?”

He was too near. She was too exposed. She looked away from the brilliant colors and found his eyes on her. “The tea’s getting cold.”

He smiled. “Yes, the tea.” His fingertip followed a ridge in the painting where the color had been applied thick and fast. He laid it next to the others. “Thank you for showing them to me.”

“You’re welcome.” The words were stiff; her voice a schoolmarm’s. “Shall we go have our tea?”

“Can I help you put them away?”

“No.” The answer was firm. “I’ll do it later.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. He looked at her but didn’t ask again.

She followed him into the living room, turning off the bedroom light, leaving the paintings in darkness.

She sat on the hard seat of the rocking chair, leaning forward to pass Brady his tea. He took the mug from her hand, his fingers meeting the tips of hers. A current moved up her arm from his touch. She pulled her hand away. Stop being silly, she told herself.

She straightened in the wood seat, balancing her mug on her thigh. She tried a tiny smile, added some small talk. “Anna Kelsey and Molly came in today.”

“Oh.” He leaned against the back of the sofa, resting his elbow on the upholstered arm, his mug held in his wide hand. He shifted toward her, stretching one leg diagonally across the couch so that his foot dangled. His other arm extended and stretched along the sofa’s back.

“They came in to choose the decorations for Jenna’s baby shower—a floral arrangement for the buffet table, some favors, balloons, that kind of thing.”

He nodded. She was boring him. “Anna mentioned she ran into you the other night outside the shop.”

He smiled, but the tiredness she’d seen earlier in his face deepened. “She was walking Martha home to Worthington House.”

“She said Martha gave you a hard time.”

He nodded again. “She’s trying to scare up another couple ready for a wedding present. The Quilting Circle must need a new project.” He leaned forward to set his tea on the chest, then sat back, stretching his arms over his head. “I told her the Spencer family has already done their share for a few years.” He settled into the couch. “I should’ve never sat down.”

He straightened, pressing his palms against the seat cushions. He shook his head apologetically, his eyes heavy-lidded. “I’ve got to go, Eden, before I fall asleep right here.”

“Of course.” She jumped up from the chair. “Let me just wrap up some cookies for you to take home.” She put the basket on the tea tray and carried it into the kitchen.

She opened a cupboard and took out another tin like the one Brady had returned this evening.

“You can warm them in the microwave and they’ll taste like they just came out of the oven.” She piled the cookies in the tin and pushed down the lid as she walked into the living room. “I gave you all the cookies I had in case you have to share.”

She heard a snore. “Brady?”

He had settled into the sofa, his leg propped up, his arm outstretched. His head had fallen back, his mouth parted.

“Brady?”

He snored again.

She should wake him. But as she was about to touch his shoulder, he snored. She snatched her hand away.

“Brady?” Her whisper was urgent.

He shifted onto his side and brought both legs up on the cushions. The side of his face pressed against the needlepoint pillow propped against the sofa’s arm.

She really should wake him. Her hand reached out again to lightly tap his shoulder. He shifted once more, only to burrow his body deeper into the cushions.

Eden retreated to the rocking chair. She rocked, watching him. His body was too long to stretch out fully and so was tucked, the knees bent, the arms folded across his chest. His snores were rhythmic now, a deep, full bass that sounded of authority even as he slept. His mouth had opened but was not slack. None of the strong lines, the flat planes of his face had softened. She rocked back and forth and wondered if this solid, self-reliant man ever rested.

His body turned again as if searching for comfort. His shoulders were as wide as the couch. One hand fell from its tight press to his chest. It lay against his leg, the fingers unfurling, reaching, the palm exposed, and that hand that had healed so many was at rest.

She couldn’t wake him now. She wasn’t bold enough to slip off his shoes, but she did take the crocheted afghan out of the wicker basket in the corner and unfold it, letting it fall across his body. Some fringe fell on his chin, across his opened mouth. She brushed the yarn away, careful not to touch him.




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