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Sweet Tibby Mack
Roz Denny Fox
Matchmaker Matchmaker"Settle down for a warm, wonderful read by the talented Roz Denny Fox!"–Kristin HannahHave Matchmakers, Will Marry!Tibby Mack–sweet Tibby Mack. She's twenty-seven, which makes her the youngest resident of Yaqui Springs, a retirement community near California's Salton Sea. The folks there have become her family, her friends…her matchmakers. But since the youngest man in town is sixty-five, the chances of finding Tibby a husband are slim to none.Then…Cole O'Donnell is "enticed" to Yaqui Springs. He meets all the matchmakers' qualifications. Age: 30. Looks: good (make that great!). And he's inherited his grandfather's property. He's the answer to their prayers (though not to Tibby's!).What the matchmakers don't know is that Tibby and Cole have a history. Or that Cole's involved with another woman. Or that Tibby and Cole are at odds over a post office–and a game of golf!What the matchmakers do know is that these two are in love, and that once in a while, love needs a nudge….



Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u5cc515d1-a74c-5477-941a-aebd6a9f788d)
Excerpt (#u096a60ca-6d63-526c-adfa-9e9a2dfbe2b9)
Dear Reader (#ufee68649-6fba-5e97-8092-45667c5ffee9)
Title Page (#u91f848bf-7480-581b-ba8e-4608e54b3252)
Dedication (#u30887f2b-635d-561c-8828-eb616838ff3e)
Prologue (#u0aeb1b57-b93b-5966-b3eb-0edd77c82ee8)
Chapter One (#u2c0649af-677e-522d-b55b-3e88c05f3c35)
Chapter Two (#u68e98dda-401d-5bba-9acc-15d0e3faa620)
Chapter Three (#u7270b123-7329-58e5-b13b-6f50a7127ab7)
Chapter Four (#ua18d1aa3-434b-564b-b7ae-69318ef04f67)
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 Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Preview (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“My friends, our sweet Tibby is withering on the vine.”
“But Winnie…Ralph Hopple’s the only bachelor in Yaqui Springs,” Henrietta Feeney ventured timidly. “He’s sixty-five if he’s a day. Besides, do you think Tibby wants us meddling in that part of her life?”

Winnie Toliver leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Tibby mustn’t know. We have to find an acceptable single man between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-five and somehow entice him to settle in Yaqui Springs.”

“Who?” wailed Mabel. “And how?”

“Mabel, you sound like an owl,” Winnie snapped. “I didn’t say it would be easy. It will require a lot of thought and possibly some scouting. Let’s meet again one week from today. I’ll expect everyone to bring some workable suggestions.”

Mabel jumped to her feet and clapped. “Winnie, you’re right! I always said old age and treachery will win out over youth and skill any day!”
Dear Reader (#ulink_7f014a80-5a77-5cbb-83da-3b9ce75eb9dc),
I was delighted to learn that Sweet Tibby Mack is the launch book for Superromance’s in-series promotion, MATCHMAKER, MATCHMAKER. In some parts of the world, the role of matchmaker is not taken lightly. Official matchmakers present the prospective groom’s offer to the bride’s family and negotiate the dowry. Here, it’s an informal role—usually entered into enthusiastically by well-meaning friends and family members.
Most women have experienced matchmaking, either aggressive or low-key. To many it’s a source of amusement, to others a situation abhorred. But for some it works. My own marriage is the result of my husband’s sister bringing me in as a decoy to break up a relationship he had with another woman. I’m not sure the matchmaker expected her efforts to end in anything as permanent as marriage, however.

But, alas, too often matchmaking doesn’t go as fondly planned. It’s almost always fraught with problems--and frequently backfires, as Tibby Mack’s friends discover when they endeavor to find her the perfect husband.

I hope you enjoy Tibby’s experience—and her matchmakers!
Roz
P.S. I love to hear from readers. Write to me at: P.O. Box 17480-101 Tucson, Arizona 85731

Sweet Tibby Mack
Roz Denny Fox




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
My heartfelt thanks to Gloriajean and Jim Boone for
recounting the joys—and less-than-joyous experiences—connected
with building a public golf course on private land.
May you have smoother sailing on the back nine.

For those readers not fluent in golf’s bewildering language,
I offer the information the
Boones so kindly gave me:
In golf, when it comes to score, less is best.

par: number of strokes set for a hole, depending on difficulty birdie: one stroke under par eagle: two strokes under par bogey: one stroke over par double bogey: two strokes over par irons and woods: two types of golf clubs

PROLOGUE (#ulink_a43443e0-037d-5103-a03c-27a5bd4ff4da)
“I SUPPOSE YOU LADIES are wondering why I called this emergency meeting of the Moped Mavericks.” Winnie Toliver, the group’s president, was a born leader. Energy all but crackled around her short gray curls as she paced the width of the Yaqui Springs recreation center.
The others immediately quieted.
“I’m concerned about our sweet Tibby,” Winnie said, referring to the youngest resident living in their retirement community. Each woman present had had a hand in Tibby Mack’s early upbringing. A few days ago she’d turned twenty-six.
“Gracious, Tibby isn’t ill, is she?” asked Mabel Sparks, a retired teacher who had scheduled Tibby’s home schooling from age ten through eighteen.
Yaqui Springs sat on the west bank of the Salton Sea in California’s Imperial Valley. Since it comprised mainly retired citizens, the county saw no need to provide transportation to elementary or secondary schools. Outside of Tibby, the youngest person in the loosely formed community was fifty-six.
“Tibby’s not sick,” Winnie assured the others quickly, halting the murmurs of sympathy that threatened to disrupt the meeting. “Since her grandmother passed on, rest Lara’s soul, Tibby’s scarcely stopped running. Each week the child takes on more chores.”
Ariel Pulaski patted her new perm. “You aren’t suggesting she close the beauty shop, are you? It’s so handy.”
“I know our men would hate to lose the coffee bar.” Rosamond Gordon, a former concert pianist, frowned. “And we’ve come to depend on the post office. You aren’t suggesting she give that up after Lara worked so hard to establish one for us?”
“Ladies, ladies, don’t get me wrong. I love all the services Tibby provides. Mack’s General Store has never been so well stocked. And who among us doesn’t appreciate the organic fruits and veggies that sweet girl grows? With more people moving here each year, Tibby’s newsletter is a blessing, too. But I ask you—what kind of social life does the poor girl have?”
“You’re right, Winnie,” chimed in Justine Banks. “Tibby hasn’t attended one of my watercolor classes this year. Claims she’s too busy.”
“Justine, I’m talking social life as in dating. As in getting married and having babies for us to spoil. My friends, our sweet Tibby is withering on the vine.”
“But Winnie…Ralph Hopple’s the only bachelor in Yaqui Springs,” Henrietta Feeny ventured timidly. “He’s sixty-five if he’s a day. Besides, do you think Tibby will want us meddling in that part of her life?”
Winnie leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Tibby mustn’t know. We have to find an acceptable single man between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-five and somehow entice him to settle in Yaqui Springs.”
“Who?” wailed Mabel. “And how?”
“Mabel, you sound like an owl,” Winnie snapped. “I didn’t say it would be easy. It will require a lot of thought and possibly some scouting. Let’s meet again one week from today. I’ll expect everyone to bring workable suggestions.”
Rosamond waved her hand. “Couldn’t Joe and the others take her golfing more often over to Bogey Wells? I hear the resort hired a new golf pro.”
“Yes!” Winnie clapped her hands to cut through the excitement that had erupted. “Joe plays there daily, as do Pete, George and Fred,” she said, speaking of their mates. “We’ll check out the new pro. Although he’s fortysomething, I think.”
“My dentist is younger,” piped up Henrietta. “Thirty-eight. Maybe he’d like to move his practice out here from Indio. He’s talked about slowing down.”
“See.” Winnie beamed. “Already we have prospects. One week from today we’ll meet here and study our options.”

“LADIES, COULD WE HAVE quiet, please? We’ve got a lot to discuss. I realize our one week ran into three, what with Yale O’Donnell’s funeral and all. If we hadn’t stepped in, the poor man wouldn’t have had a decent burial. His daughter-in-law only showed up to try and get her mitts on his fortune. I’m glad he just left her a token amount.”
Ariel snorted. “He left the bulk to his grandson. If you ask me, Cole’s no better than his mama. She, at least, attended the funeral.”
Winnie shushed the women, who’d begun to chatter among themselves. “Cole is out of the country. You know he designs resort golf courses. After Henrietta and Justine give us their reports, I’ll tell you what else I dug up on Cole O’Donnell.”
Teased by the promise of juicy gossip, Henrietta stood. “I made a special trip to my dentist. Tibby drove me. Scratch him from our list. On the way home I pumped her to see what she thought of him. You know how Tibby never says anything bad about a person?” Henrietta paused. “She said he was stodgy.”
“She’s Lara’s granddaughter all right.” Mabel smiled. “Tibby was twelve when she asked me what stodgy meant. It’s how Lara described Ralph Hopple.”
Justine exchanged places with Henrietta. “We’re in trouble, ladies. There’s only one bachelor registered at the resort in Bogey Wells. A forty-year-old bird-watcher from Connecticut. If there’s a term meaning beyond stodgy, he’s it. And forget their golf pro. Winnie and I agree he’s nothing but a Don Juan.”
“Oh, no.” Rosamond wrung her hands. “I have worse news. I saw Tibby poring over brochures for a nutritionist’s program they offer at San Diego State. You don’t suppose she’s thinking of leaving Yaqui Springs?”
“Wait” Winnie silenced the twitters. “Don’t you want to hear the rest of my news?” Her blue eyes sparkled as she produced a creased golf magazine from her back pocket. Quickly she thumbed it open to a dog-eared page and made a circuit of the group so all could see.
“He’s a dish,” someone murmured.
“A dreamboat. Who is he?” demanded another.
Winnie fairly smirked. “Don’t you recognize him? This, ladies, is a grown-up Cole O’Donnell.” Once all the whistles and you’re kidding’s tapered off, Winnie let the silence drag out until she had everyone’s attention. “According to the article he’s still single. If I remember correctly, he must be just over thirty.”
“I see it says he lives in Hollywood,” interjected Justine, who’d grabbed the magazine. “He’s not…funny, is he—well, you know what I mean?”
A ring of anxious faces turned to Winnie. “No. In the fine print it alludes to one of his aims being to start a family someday. Now, hush and let me get to the good part. You know how Joe and the others fuss, having to drive to Bogey Wells every day to play golf?” Seeing all the nods, she continued, “Last night at dinner, out of the blue Joe says, ‘It’s too bad young Cole O’Donnell doesn’t come to Yaqui Springs and build a golf course on all that land Yale left him.’“ Winnie paused to let that sink in. “Well, I said, calm as you please, ‘You’re head of our recreational-development committee, Joseph. Get up a petition on behalf of the residents’ association and send it to Cole.’”
Mabel jumped to her feet and clapped. “Winnie, you’re a genius! I always said old age and treachery will win over youth and skill any day. As I recall, our Tibby used to be quite smitten with that boy. Let’s all go sign Joe’s petition.”
“Tibby may have been enamored of Cole once, but ten years is a long time. Until we see how they get along, mum’s the word,” Winnie cautioned as the Moped matchmakers left the rec center.

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_488a73b4-13d3-5086-b068-1851fd0ab1e0)
TIBBY MACK smiled to herself as she loaded the last of the homemade baskets, each of them filled with bright spring blooms, into the back of her aged station wagon. She could almost feel her grandmother’s presence. Hanging May baskets on the front doorknobs of all the Yaqui Springs residents was a yearly event Lara Mack had lovingly observed. Though Gram had been gone nearly a year, Tibby knew that if the kindly old lady were ever to smile down from heaven, it would be on May Day.
Running late as usual, Tibby slammed the tailgate and hurried into the store to shed her gardening gloves. If no one caught her distributing baskets and stopped to chat, she might get back to open the store and coffee bar on time. Although she’d promised to feed Ariel Pulaski’s Afghan hounds for a few days, and they had to be worked in before she drove Mabel Sparks to the airport…
“Uh-oh. Looks like I didn’t move fast enough.” Clutching the Closed sign, Tibby tossed her thick braid over one shoulder as she watched a car leave the main highway and speed toward the general store. A racy sports car. She frowned. No one she knew drove anything remotely that upscale. Had it been a local, she would’ve given him a key, and trusted him to leave a list of what he took. As it was a stranger, she had no choice but to leave fast or chance letting the fragile blossoms wilt.
Flipping the sign to read Closed, she sprinted toward her vehicle.
The approaching stranger squealed his midnight blue Jaguar to a halt in front of Tibby and hopped out almost before the full-throated growl of the engine quit.
She froze, her breath trapped in her throat. The world tilted crazily. Not a stranger. Cole O’Donnell. Someone she’d steeled herself to see at Yale’s funeral—and then he hadn’t shown up. After she’d spent days foolishly worrying that she wouldn’t recognize him. Tibby would have known his thick acorn brown hair and beachboy tan at ten times the distance. But why was he here now? She automatically smoothed her wrinkled skirt and grappled for composure.
“Well, hel-lo,” he drawled, flashing a smile that warmed his gray eyes. “It’s a thirsty drive from the coast I’m dying for a cup of coffee.” He glanced expectantly from the still-swinging Closed sign to the woman’s lush goldenrod hair. “Things have changed in Yaqui Springs. I’d heard Mrs. Mack passed away. She ran the store as far back as I can remember. Are you the new owner?” Cole didn’t think the attractive blonde was the new owner’s wife. He noticed that her left hand was bare of rings.
Hurt that he didn’t recognize her, Tibby slipped on a pair of sunglasses. Yet it shouldn’t surprise her that he didn’t. Their last’meeting—the spring she’d finally found the courage to invite him to the Date Festival in Indio—he’d been an older man of almost twenty to her sixteen. Oh, he’d looked at her, but he hadn’t really seen her when he carelessly turned her down. It embarrassed her now to think how often she’d haunted his grandfather’s place, waiting for snippets of news about Cole. If Yale ever guessed what prompted her many visits, he’d never let on. That grand old gentleman had taught her bookkeeping skills, which allowed her to run the store during her grandmother’s long illness and after. He’d also taken her golfing to keep her spirits up.
Now Yale, too, was gone. A fact that didn’t seem to bother the man standing before her, flaunting his sexy, easy smile.
“You’re a little late for your grandfather’s funeral,” Tibby said coolly. “We buried him six weeks ago.”
The accusation cut through Cole like a hot knife. Anna, bless his mother’s callous soul, hadn’t seen fit to let him know. Until he’d returned from Italy to a backlog of mail, he’d remained unaware he’d lost the person he loved most in the world. At first he’d been too shaken to even deal with the inheritance. Then one day about a month ago he’d received a note from the Yaqui Springs recreational committee, along with a petition asking that he build a golf course on his grandfather’s land. His land now.
Owning his own golf course was Cole’s “someday” dream. Gramps had taught him to play the game and love it. What better tribute to the old man’s memory?
Who was this woman? Cole shaded his eyes against the sun. And if the set of her shoulders and the twist of her lips were any indication, she didn’t like him.
“Hey, wait,” he called as she climbed into a woodsided station wagon and prepared to leave. “Have we met?”
“Blue moons ago, whiz kid. I’m Tibby Mack.” Slamming her door, she pushed the key into the ignition and gave it a twist. Tibby thanked her lucky stars that for once the wagon started without a sputter. “I hate to run, but I’m delivering May baskets to the residents. Then I have Pulaski’s dogs to feed and Mabel Sparks to take to the airport. Afraid you’ll have to get your caffeine fix elsewhere.”
Tibby Mack. Lara Mack’s granddaughter? Cole’s jaw nearly hit the asphalt. That skinny kid who wore pigtails and had braces on her teeth? Maybe the moss green eyes were familiar, but now they appeared in a whole different package. He hadn’t seen her for—what?—at least ten years. The summer he’d been a college sophomore. Hot stuff. Nineteen going on thirty. His friends had spent their spring break in Palm Springs. Gramps had wanted him to come to Yaqui Springs—and after all, Yale had paid for his education. If memory served Cole, his vacation hadn’t turned out half-bad. He’d met an “older woman” of twenty-five. A tennis instructor working the resort at Bogey Wells. She’d greatly enhanced his education—and not just in tennis.
Cole stared after the disappearing car. “Well, whaddaya know.” Though he hadn’t been back since, he’d spent most previous summers in Yaqui Springs. He remembered the year Tibby Mack had come to live with her grandmother. The kid had looked so lost and forlorn. Because Cole understood loneliness, he’d taken her fishing and given her rides on his moped—until she’d gotten one of her own.
Cole checked his watch. The store sign said she opened at eight. Was business so good she could take off on a whim? Not by the look of the big empty parking lot. It was all pretty much as Cole remembered, except for a new building Gramps must’ve put up. Even that needed a coat of paint. If Tibby’s eye was on progress, it didn’t show. Maybe she’d become the type to flit around living off inherited money because it was her due—like his mother, he thought bitterly. Old news, Cole reminded himself. No longer affecting him. Nor did anything about Tibby affect him.
Cole jerked his thoughts back to the mission that had brought him here—Joe Toliver’s letter. It’d come at the right time. Tired of traveling, he’d been giving serious thought to settling down and starting a family of his own. He even had a lady in mind. Cicely Brock, an actress. They got along well. Plus, when the two of them walked into a room, men stepped all over their tongues. A guy could do a lot worse.
Cole wasn’t going to let one rude woman deter his plans. He’d survey his grandfather’s property, then visit the committee who’d asked him here. Those old boys just might have themselves a first-class golf course.

BY THE TIME Tibby had finished delivering her fiftieth May basket, she’d nearly ground the enamel off her molars. If one more person brought up Cole O’Donnell’s name, she thought she’d scream. First of all, she didn’t see how anyone could forgive him for skipping his grandfather’s funeral, let alone roll out a red carpet for the man.
“Yoo-hoo, Tibby!” Henrietta Feeny came out onto her porch to collect the May basket hanging from her doorknob. “Tibby dear, have you heard the news?”
“What news, Henrietta?” Tibby fidgeted on the bottom step. She was afraid she knew exactly what Henrietta would say.
“Yale’s grandson is back in town.”
“Do tell. Amazing how fast bad news travels,” Tibby muttered.
“Bad? But he’s so handsome, dear.” The plump woman preened a bit. “Why, if I were thirty years younger…”
“Yes? And what about Fred?” Tibby knew that Henrietta and Fred had been married forty years. They still walked hand in hand when they came into the store.
“Oh, you know what I mean.”
“No, Henrietta, I don’t. Am I the only one who cares that Cole didn’t show up to pay his respects to his grandfather?”
“He couldn’t help it. The dear boy’s been working out of the country. Tibby, you have dirt on your dress. Will you have time to change before you open the store?”
“Change?” Tibby blinked. Her mind stalled on the information about Cole. How on earth did Henrietta know where he’d been? Was there a full moon or something? Her friends were acting very strange. Absently Tibby scrubbed at the spots on her skirt. “It’s honest dirt, as Gram used to say. I’ll put on a smock at the store. No one’ll notice.”
“Tibby, about those smocks. They were all right for Lara. But they make you look…frumpy.”
“Frumpy? Thanks a lot, and happy May Day, Henrietta. I wish I could stay for more hot fashion tips, but I’ve got a very full schedule today.”
“You shouldn’t do so much, Tibby. I’ll take Mabel into Palm Springs and get her to the airport.”
Tibby had almost reached the street, but the remark gave her pause. Henrietta’s eyes were so bad she had trouble telling red peppers from green; she certainly couldn’t identify traffic lights. And she probably hadn’t driven in five years. Far-fetched though it sounded, Cole O’Donnell had apparently cast a spell on the women of Yaqui Springs. Some of the women, Tibby corrected. She saw through him.
“I’m not doing too much, Henrietta,” Tibby said more gently, worried that the woman might truly take it upon herself to drive Mabel to the airport. “Maybe you should go in out of the sun. Drink a cup of chamomile tea.” Tibby checked over her shoulder after starting her car. Was Henrietta exhibiting some form of mild dementia? Ginkgo encouraged blood circulation to the brain. She made a mental note to bring her friend a supply at the earliest opportunity.
Before Tibby finished delivering the remaining baskets, she decided half the town needed ginkgo. Either that, or she needed the spring tonic. Men and women alike bubbled excitedly over Cole’s sudden appearance.
Tibby drove past the O’Donnell house on her way back to the store. She craned her neck and saw Cole surveying the property. At the funeral, she recalled, his mother had mentioned that he’d inherited virtually everything. Tibby’s stomach tumbled. Was he planning to sell Yale’s place?
To whom? she wondered. Since his land bordered hers, any sale concerned Tibby. If only she could swing buying twenty or so acres. Yaqui Springs expanded every year—it’d be nice to have space between the store and any new dwellings. Except for the nearby bird sanctuary and the state park, the smattering of retirement communities dotting the shores of the Salton Sea were loosely zoned. A few oldtimers like her grandmother and Yale had built permanent homes; most others lived in mobiles or prefab homes that had sprung up willy-nilly.
Tibby parked and got out. She didn’t understand how Cole could sell and never lay eyes on Yaqui Springs again. Everything that mattered to her was right here. Unlocking the door, she flipped the Closed sign around to read Open.
She stood there for a minute and drew in a deep breath. Thyme, rosemary and ripe oranges blended with the lemon oil Grandmother Mack had taught her to use lovingly on the old wood counters. To some the store with its many additions might look like a hodgepodge. To Tibby it was home—and had been since shortly after her tenth birthday, the spring her missionary parents died in a Brazilian mud slide. She loved every nook and cranny of the rambling house and the store. Both were solid structures. Safe.
Happy as she’d once been in Brazil, fond memories were overshadowed by the frightening pain of loss. People lived to a ripe old age in Yaqui Springs. As Tibby ran water for the coffee, she took comfort in that thought.
A group of coffee-bar regulars, townsmen who stopped to sample her special blend and her cardamon or poppyseed rolls before they went to play golf at Bogey Wells, arrived before the coffee finished perking. They seemed unusually ebullient—Cole O’Donnell again?—but Tibby was too busy catching up on her work to eavesdrop. Besides, the point of her newly installed tea-and-coffee bar was to run itself. Ideally people filled their own cups and bussed the tables afterward. She made fresh rolls and sandwiches daily, placing them in a refrigerated case for easy access. She’d installed a small microwave in the alcove for her patrons’ convenience. If she was busy in the office, pharmacy or beauty shop, folks were more or less left on the honor system. Lara Mack had operated on trust, and Tibby saw no reason to change.
Midway through the morning, after the men had gone, she busily wrapped tomato-and-sprout sandwiches for the lunch bunch. Justine Banks, Yaqui Springs’s resident artist, strolled in, passing through to what was once the store’s sunporch. Last year Tibby had made it a pharmacy of sorts. She carried Band-Aids, ointments and a number of simple holistic remedies.
“My hay fever’s acting up,” Justine called. “That elder-flower tea worked wonders. And Pete asked me to pick up another bottle of purple-sage mouthwash.”
“Really?” Tibby poked her head around the corner. “I thought you said he wouldn’t give up his commercial brand.”
Justine winked. “I said he didn’t want to give it up. There’s a difference. To convince a man, you have to work things around to where it appears to be his idea. Remember that advice, Tibby. Someday when you get married, you’ll find it useful.”
“Married?” Tibby wrinkled her nose. “Me? When would I find time for a husband? That’s supposing a candidate just dropped out of the sky.” Tibby stilled, recalling a time she’d dreamed of marrying Cole O’Donnell.
Justine plucked a few more items off the shelves and carried them to the counter. “Did you know the O’Donnell boy is back in town?” she asked casually.
Tibby rang up the purchases without comment “Your total is eight dollars and forty-nine cents, Justine.”
The older woman handed her a ten. “Yale’s house has been closed up for weeks. Did you leave a May basket there? Lilacs mixed with lemon balm would freshen musty rooms, say, if someone planned to stay at the house awhile.”
Crossing her arms, Tibby sent Justine a withering look. “Somehow I don’t picture Cole O’Donnell as the lilac sort. Lavender, to remind him of a French boudoir, maybe.”
“What’s gotten into you, Tibby? It’s unlike you not to be neighborly.”
“Yale was my neighbor. If you want to take Cole a bouquet, here’re the shears.”
Justine pouted. “I’m offering to watch the store while you take something over. It’ll do you good to get out more.”
Tibby stripped off her worn serviceable apron. “Thanks for the offer, Justine. Otherwise I’d have to close the store while I run Mabel to the airport. This way, I’ll have plenty of time to stop and feed Ariel’s hounds. I’ll be back to relieve you by three.”
“But, Tibby. That’s not what I—” Tibby moved very fast, and Justine was left looking bewildered.
All the way to the Pulaski house, Tibby fumed. A testament to how upset she was, she fed the hounds canned food, instead of the kibble Ariel had requested. Darn. Too late now. Genghis Khan and Alexander the Great licked their dishes clean and looked as if they’d start on her toes next. They wouldn’t, though; Tibby knew the dogs were lovable. “Good boys. Tonight we’ll run,” she promised, refilling both water bowls.
Every time she fed and exercised the hounds, Tibby thought about getting a pet for herself. Evenings, especially this past year, seemed unbearably lonely.
Escaping two large dogs who hadn’t laid eyes on a human all day wasn’t easy. Tibby tossed tennis balls across the yard and quickly ran out through the gate. Still panting, she started her car and drove the four blocks to Mabel’s neat double-wide mobile home. So help her, if Mabel mentioned Cole even once on this trip, no matter how innocently, she could darn well walk to the airport.
“Sorry I’m late.” Tibby hopped out and opened the back of the station wagon. She brushed aside flower petals before stowing Mabel’s suitcase.
“You’re not late, child. It’s sweet of you to do this. I don’t know what any of us would do without your selfless generosity.”
They buckled up and Tibby drove off. “Are you kidding? You set up my school curriculum and taught me how to read. Everyone in Yaqui Springs contributed to my education. If I gave back twenty-four hours a day, I could never repay half of what I owe.”
Mabel gazed at her with kind eyes. “It’s not a debt, Tibby. Don’t you know? You gave us purpose again. You needed skills we had that we thought no one would want again. Retirement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Joe Toliver didn’t ask to quit the chemical-engineering firm he worked for. He was forced out. Teaching you math and chemistry was a boost his ego needed. Just ask Winnie. And Rosamond’s arthritis kept her from playing concert piano. Giving you music lessons made her feel worthwhile. The same with Justine. In teaching you art, she realized she still had enough talent to begin selling her work again.”
“I guess I always thought you did those things as a favor to my grandmother.”
“Lara did us a favor by sharing you, sweet Tibby.”
“I don’t know about that.” Embarrassed, Tibby stam-hered. “I…I was homely as a mud turtle and twice as awkward.” Quite suddenly she saw herself as Cole O’Donnell must have seen her.
“You were a duckling, all arms, legs and eyes.” Mabel smiled. “We knew some day you’d be a beautiful swan.”
“Pul-leez!” Never one to field compliments well, Tibby drove in silence for the remaining miles. While searching for a parking place, she brought up Mabel’s return trip. “If you stay past Sunday, call me. Otherwise I’ll be here at nine.”
“Then you aren’t planning a move to San Diego while I’m gone?”
Tibby gasped. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Someone saw you poring over college brochures.”
“I’m looking at correspondence courses in nutrition.” Tibby set Mabel’s case on the scale at the check-in counter. Idle chatter fell off as the reservations agent stamped Mabel’s ticket and gave her a boarding pass. During the short walk to the concourse, Tibby picked up where they’d left off. “Organic foods and fresh herbs are a start toward good health, Mabel, but I’d like to provide the residents with more. I want all of you to live to be a hundred.”
“You already take good care of us, Tibby. It’s time you gave some thought to taking care of yourself.”
Tibby blinked. “I do exercise and try to eat right.”
“Oh, dear, they’re calling my flight.” Mabel patted Tibby’s smooth hand with her wrinkled one. “Longevity stems from more than a healthy body, dear. How long has it been since you’ve enjoyed the company of anyone your own age? Someone like that nice-looking Cole O’Donnell, for instance.” She winked. “Goodness, last call already? Look after yourself, Tibby. I’ll see you Sunday. And Tibby? Don’t forget the two essentials of happiness—something to do and someone to love.”
Mabel’s words nagged at Tibby on the drive home. It seemed a curious statement for anyone who knew her to make. When had she ever had companions her own age? Occasionally, during the summers, if any of the residents’ grandchildren visited. Mostly the girls had been silly and giggly, the boys cocksure and pushy. All except Cole, who at four years her senior, had let her tag along sometimes. Him she’d worshipped. Then came the year she’d desperately wanted him to notice she’d grown up.
Which, of course, he never did.
Speaking of the boy wonder—as she passed Yale’s cedar ranch-style house, she saw him amid a cluster of colorful mopeds. The women of Yaqui Springs seemed entranced, watching Cole’s teeth flash white in the afternoon sun.
Tibby snorted in disgust. No wonder Henrietta, Mabel and Justine were smitten, watching him ooze charm. He seemed to be going out of his way to enchant them.
Why, Tibby wondered? It wasn’t as if he intended to join the community.
Her whole body was tense by the time she reached the store. Fortunately Justine was too busy to ask questions, and Tibby was soon able to forget Cole O’Donnell and Mabel’s provocative exit line. In between waiting on customers, the mail came. Tibby hefted the bags, dashed to the post office, sorted and tucked mail into the residents’ boxes. Justine had taken off shortly after Tibby returned.
Around four—still two hours to closing—she found a minute to sit down with a cup of blackberry tea. The aroma soothed her and the sweet flavor took the edge off her hunger. Normally she ate a piece of fruit for lunch. Today there simply hadn’t been time. Now it was too close to dinner.
She’d just taken a sip when the bell over the front door jingled. Tibby glanced up, then all but choked on the hot tea. Cole stood in the entryway shrugging into a T-shirt Her lungs threatening to collapse, Tibby caught a glimpse of bronzed corded muscles and a line of dark silky hair that disappeared under low-riding jeans.
Before he finished tucking the shirt into his jeans, Cole spoke. “I’ve just surveyed my grandfather’s land. Are you aware that your outbuilding—the post office I understand Lara had built—sits squarely on his property? Er…my property.”
Tibby saw him carelessly muss his sweat-damp hair. Heat pooled in her stomach. Obviously her tea needed more time to cool.
He stalked toward her. “Well, don’t you have anything to say?”
“Would you like a cup of blackberry tea?” she offered breathlessly.
Cole scowled. “I’d like to discuss this problem.”
“There isn’t any problem. Coffee’s around the corner if you’d rather have that. Soft drinks and water in the front case. Consider it my treat.”
Leaning both arms on the coffee bar, Cole forced her to look up. “When you have a structure a good twenty feet onto land belonging to me, I call it a problem.”
“Your grandfather donated the property to us—to my grandmother for the post office. I guess you don’t remember when residents had to drive all the way to Brawley to pick up mail. This is much nicer.”
He drummed his fingers on the wood. “Donated? Do you have that in writing?”
“Probably. Someplace. Yale was meticulous when it came to business.” There had been a letter. Tibby didn’t think it mentioned that she’d won the parcel in a golf wager. Yale loved to play. He’d taken over Tibby’s training after Joe Toliver taught her the rudiments. He bet outlandishly and rarely lost—except to her. The other golfers in town referred to her win as a fluke for Yale’s sake, but everyone knew the truth.
Cole waited, but she didn’t elaborate or offer him her copy. “Um…Gramps filed every receipt and every scrap of paper that ever crossed his desk,” he muttered. “There’s an entire room full of five-drawer file cabinets. I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea where to begin looking. It might take me weeks to find the documentation.”
“More like months,” Tibby said, averting her gaze. “I know. I frequently helped file his backlog.”
“Look, the burden of proof lies with you. His lawyer sent me copies of deeds, land grants and a plot plan. There was no reference to any donation. I need that section. You’ll have to tear the building down and relocate it on your own land.”
Tibby’s temper flared. “I don’t know who you’re selling to, but surely they won’t miss one worthless hill.” She folded her arms. “Besides, isn’t possession nine-tenths of the law?” she added flippantly.
“Says you. And for your information, I’m not selling. I’m planning to build an eighteen-hole golf course. That worthless hill is a prime location for my clubhouse.”
“A golf course?” Tibby blanched. “Why? Everyone plays at Bogey Wells.”
“Are you saying you aren’t aware that the people of Yaqui Springs want their own course? I find that hard to believe when your store seems to be the headquarters for gossip.”
So that’s why everyone was ecstatic when Cole showed up. Tibby couldn’t imagine why she’d been left out of the loop. That knowledge hurt. As possible reasons whirled through her head, she rose and watched Cole wander around the store, picking up a few food items. Bread, cheese, coffee, a selection of fruits and vegetables. Finally he threw in a six-pack of light beer.
“Anna must have cleaned out Gramps’s cupboards when she was here,” he said stiffly. “They’re bare as old Mother Hubbard’s.”
“Anna? Oh, your mother.” Tibby rang up items automatically. Her brain retraced what Cole had said about building a golf course. Even if he designed one, who would run it? Did that mean he intended to sell to a resort developer? Yaqui Springs would never be the same if he did.
“Regarding that so-called letter…” Cole said as Tibby bagged his groceries. “I’m staying at the house. If you turn up something, you can drop it off there.”
Tibby ignored that. “Talk to the people who invited you here. They know Yale contributed the land. In Brawley the post office never let any one person from here collect everyone’s mail. It placed a hardship on residents who didn’t drive. Having our own postal service was Gram’s dream. But unless she tore out the gardens or the orchard, her property wasn’t suitable. Yale’s land was the perfect solution. Why don’t you put your clubhouse someplace else?”
“I don’t expect you to understand the layout of a golf course. I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it. And time is money. I’d like to start excavation. If you need help tearing that shack down, I’ll be happy-to assist”
“Shack?” Tibby leaped out of her chair. “Take my word for this, O’Donnell—touch one stick of wood in that federal building, and I’ll contact the authorities.” Tibby lowered her voice as Winnie Toliver strolled through the front door. The pert woman eyed the two who stood rigidly, glaring at one another.
“Afternoon, Cole…Tibby,” she said, inclining her neatly cropped hair. “The Moped Mavericks rode past the cemetery today. The fresh flowers look beautiful, Tibby.”
Tibby relaxed. “Thanks. It didn’t seem right to decorate just my grandmother’s plot. Not when she gave May baskets to everyone.”
Cole, who’d reached the door, stopped. “I meant to ask who decorated the graves. This morning I paid my respects to Gramps. Your flowers brightened the place and made my visit easier,” he said, his voice rough with feeling.
Tibby hitched up a shoulder. “You’re welcome,” she mumbled, avoiding his eyes. “He needs a headstone, O’Donnell. The kind with a built-in vase. Your mother only authorized one of those cheapie markers.”
“Tibby.” There was a note of shock in Winnie’s tone.
Tibby frowned at Cole. “I can’t help it. The marker is tacky. It’s not like Yale was a pauper. He deserves better.”
Cole wrenched the door open. “Anna didn’t mention needing a stone. Actually she didn’t mention Gramps had died, either. Consider it done, Ms. Mack. The kind with the vase. Two damned vases if you’d like.”
Winnie jumped as the door banged sharply on his dramatic exit.
Tibby didn’t bat an eye. “Of all the arrogant, insufferable, overbearing—”
“Why, Tibby!” Winnie’s eyes widened. “This is so unlike you.”
Ashamed of letting her feelings show, Tibby closed her eyes and massaged her temples. “Sorry, Winnie. I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“I do. You’ve been working too hard. You were by our house at six this morning, and I’m sure you rose earlier to cut all those flowers. You probably stayed up half the night making baskets, too.” Her face softened. “They are pretty, though. Made out of wallpaper, aren’t they?”
Tibby nodded. “Last time I went to buy stakes for my tomatoes, one of the paint stores in Indio was selling sample books,” she said. “Wallpaper holds up better than construction paper for heavier flowers like lilac and jasmine. This year the trees are overloaded.”
“I noticed that the desert verbena’s beginning to bloom, too. And the smoke trees are starting to leaf. The Mavericks rode south toward El Centro today. I wish you’d been with us, Tibby. I remember how you used to love finding the first burroweed blossoms.”
“That was before Gram got so sick. I honestly don’t know how she managed the gardens, the orchard, the store, plus the housework. Especially at her age.”
“She devoted her whole life to this community after she lost Leo. It became her obsession after your parents were killed. But, Tibby, you’re too young to bury yourself in work. You haven’t lived yet.”
“This is certainly the day for everyone to lecture me. First Henrietta, then Mabel and now you. Have I turned into such a terrible grouch?”
“No, sweet Tibby. But all work and no play makes for a dull life.” Winnie left, giving Tibby no chance to respond.
Tibby wondered if Winnie had dropped by just to scold her. Was she working too hard? No. And right now she had better things to do than speculate. This week she was scheduled to print the newsletter. In addition to that, she had to find where Grandmother Mack had put Yale’s letter. Frankly, Tibby would’ve liked nothing better than to shove that document in Cole O’Donnell’s face, along with a copy of the scathing article she planned to write in the newsletter denouncing his golf course. Couldn’t the residents see that this was exactly the kind of development that’d make Cole a millionaire—and Yaqui Springs just another toilet bowl for the rich?

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_8dd922ac-dda7-5e54-98c5-46e66d192ebd)
THE NEXT EVENING Cole took his sandwich and cup of coffee to the screened porch. The setting sun gave off just enough light to see. He and his grandfather used to have some great talks out here. The old man had been able to debate both sides of any issue and do a convincing job of it. Cole wished he’d known about his grandfather’s heart condition; he’d have turned down that last job. All the hours they’d spent together, and Gramps never once mentioned being on high-blood-pressure medicine or having to use nitroglycerin tablets. Joe Toliver had supplied that information yesterday.
The people of Yaqui Springs had really loved Gramps. They made Cole see the value of belonging to a closeknit community. They looked after their own; they really were a community. At his condo complex on the coast the residents had iron grates on their doors and windows, and he knew barely any of his neighbors. Yes, sinking roots in Yaqui Springs appealed to him.
For no reason at all Cole recalled the baskets of flowers Tibby had placed on everyone’s door yesterday. Every door except his. After visiting the Tolivers, Fred Feeny and Ralph Hopple, Cole had to admit he’d more or less expected to find one at his place. Winnie had expected so, too. She’d lent him a vase. Apparently she didn’t know sweet Tibby as well as she’d led him to believe.
Weird how everyone called her sweet Tibby Mack as if it was her name. She hadn’t shown him any sweetness.
Swallowing the last bite of sandwich, Cole leaned back to enjoy his coffee. Boy, Tibby Mack was a classic case of a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. She used to be skinny as a post, and so bashful she’d made Cole nervous. Even then, her eyes had resembled huge moss agates, always watching him from the shadows.
Yet…if he hadn’t met Cicely, he might be tempted to ferret out that sweet personality everyone raved about. But he had met Cicely. Which reminded Cole of how lonely he’d been this past year. When they’d begun dating two years ago, a loose relationship suited them both. Cicely wanted freedom to pursue her acting career, and he flew off on short notice to design golf courses for conglomerates. The last time they’d spoken, Cole suspected Cicely’s career had stalled. Now here he was with the chance of a lifetime dumped in his lap. And with him staring thirty-one eyeball to eyeball, and Cicely a couple of years older…By the time his course opened, they should both be more than ready to settle down and start a family.
Assuming he could begin excavation soon.
Cole slammed his mug down on the glass-topped table. There was still the little matter of that prime land his neighbor had usurped. He checked his watch. Eight o’clock. Was it too late to have another go at talking her around? Rising, he carried his plate and cup into the kitchen. From there he had a fair view of the Mack house, where lights still blazed. Maybe he hadn’t approached Tibby the right way yesterday. What if he offered to compensate her for the cost of rebuilding elsewhere? Not that he owed her. But if it’d facilitate things, Cole guessed he could bend a little.
TIBBY WAS ELBOW-DEEP in printer’s ink when someone knocked at her back door. “Come in!” she yelled, hoping it’d be Pete Banks. He was Yaqui Springs’ all-purpose mechanic. Someday she hoped to be able to afford a computer and laser printer. Then, putting out the newsletter would be a snap. For now, she had to nurse this ancient printing press along.
She glanced up as Cole O’Donnell poked his head hesitantly around the door. What was he doing here? Tibby suffered a moment’s panic. Black ink covered both her hands and no doubt smudged her face. She knew her reaction was pure vanity, yet she’d rather anyone but this man caught her looking like a chimney sweep.
“Why would you shout ‘come in’ when you had no idea who was at your door?” Cole stepped inside. “An unlocked door is asking to end up a murder victim.”
“Do murderers generally knock?”
“Some might. That isn’t the point.”
“Come on. This is Yaqui Springs, not Hollywood.”
He gazed critically around the room. Quilting frames stood in one corner, ablaze with color. Dusty golf clubs in another. On the far wall a dry sink overflowed with sweetpeas. Surprisingly the effect was warm and inviting. Cole’s stomach tightened. A crazed stranger could destroy this trusting woman.
“Crime is no longer exclusive to big cities,” he said.
“You’re right, of course. It’s a habit I picked up from Grandmother Mack that I should try to break. But I’m sure you didn’t drop by to discuss my bad habits. What brings you here, O’Donnell? Forget something at the store? Or dare I hope you’ve come to tell me you’ve decided against raping our land?”
“Raping? Now see here. Golf courses are considered greenbelts. And greenbelts are pleasing to the eye. They enhance a residential community.”
“Tell that to the birds, the snakes, the ground squirrels, coyotes and other desert animals your pleasing-to-the-eye greenbelt will deprive of homes. To say nothing of destroying plant life and marsh grasses so vital to the lake. I assume you plan to use a section of the lake?” Tibby’s nose itched. She rubbed it and knew at once she’d left a black mark.
“Eventually. But I’ll have to comply with the state’s environmental policies. As a matter of fact, I faxed them my proposal this afternoon. I should hear something soon.”
“Busy boy. You drove to Brawley and back just to send a fax?”
“No. I have a fax machine in my car.”
Tibby arched a brow. “I should have known. The ultimate yuppie. Look, I’m busy. Why don’t you speak your piece, then leave?” She didn’t want him accidentally picking up one of the papers she’d already run off, as she’d written a pretty inflammatory article accusing him of wrecking the ecological and social balance of Yaqui Springs. Tibby would rather he received the news in the morning, along with everyone else.
He spread his feet and crossed his arms. “All right I’ll get to the point. There are always normal delays in construction projects of this size. The people who petitioned to get this golf course off the ground are anxious. I’m willing to offer some monetary support in relocating the post office you’ve erroneously built on my land.”
“No part of that building is erroneous. Gram had a permit, and the plans passed all inspections. Do you mind showing me this almighty petition?”
“Gladly.” Cole dug a folded piece of ruled notebook paper from his wallet.
Tibby accepted it without a word. Signatures covered both sides of the paper. Good heavens, every resident in Yaqui Springs—except her—had signed the thing. They’d skipped her on purpose. Her friends? Surrogate parents, practically. Wounded, Tibby refolded the damning evidence and thrust it back at him.
“Well?” He stuffed the smudged paper in his pocket and waited.
“It changes nothing. You probably dangled the idea before them like a carrot in front of a horse. We’ll see how they feel tomorrow after they read my article. Here.” Perversely Tibby pressed a drying newsletter into Cole’s hands and urged him toward the door. “It’ll make good bedtime reading. I hope it keeps you awake.”
Cole found himself standing on her porch almost before he realized what had happened. At least she’d locked the door, he thought as he heard the dead bolt slide home. Holding the paper up to the porch light, he skimmed the front page. The smile that had formed when he heard the lock engage died the moment he read headlines accusing him of hoodwinking the town. “She wants war.” He crushed the page. “Well, then, that’s what she’ll get,” he muttered to himself. “If Gramps gave land away—and that’s a damned big if—there’s got to be a record. I’ll check every scrap of paper in the house even if I have to stay up all night.”
Why was he hanging around out there? Tibby peered between the sunny yellow café curtains she’d stitched up last week. A sigh slipped out as Cole finally stomped down her back steps. With the moonlight dancing off his broad shoulders, he threw a long shadow across her herb garden and onto a big old apple tree. The tree where she’d spent many a summer spying on him—where she’d once foolishly carved their twined initials in a heart.
Tibby dropped the curtain after Cole had disappeared from sight. Lord, but his muscular legs and narrow hips still had the power to stir her blood. Stir her blood, and make her yearn for…for nonsensical things she didn’t have time to dream about. Impossible things…
Brushing at a tear, Tibby went back to working on her press. She wanted to run all the copies tonight and deliver them before daylight. The residents ought to have time to digest her article before they invested in Cole’s folly. They must have known she’d object to their forking over their savings to the whiz kid’s venture. Why else would they have gone behind her back? Cole must have persuaded them by playing on their esteem for Yale. The injustice had her inking rollers with a vengeance.

COLE STOOD in his grandfather’s study and popped the top on a can of beer. Where to begin? There must be thirty file cabinets. The first drawer he slid open seemed well organized, but it started the year Gramps had moved to Yaqui Springs. “Mm.” He tried to gauge the age of the post office. Definitely newer than the store. Roughly five years, he guessed. Otherwise he’d have to start with the most recent date and work backward—which really could take all night.
It was slow work, but interesting. In a way, the receipts gave a history of his grandfather’s life. The old man had bought stock low and sold high. He’d dabbled profitably in bonds and money markets. He’d bought, sold and traded a lot of land in the Imperial Valley, underscoring Cole’s belief that his grandfather wouldn’t give property away.
Cole tensed and downed a slug of beer. Gramps had spoken highly of Lara Mack—but come to think of it, he’d mentioned Tibby more often in their later correspondence.
Hadn’t Tibby admitted spending time here doing his filing? Cole fought a queasy feeling in his stomach. Was bilking people Tibby’s game? A lonely old man was a prime target:
Cole laced his fingers behind his head and tried to imagine Tibby Mack in action. That thick braid of sunstreaked hair swishing across her hips as she talked animatedly. Green eyes filling a heart-shaped face. There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with Gramps’s eyesight. Tibby possessed a willowy frame and small firm breasts that moved seductively when she walked. A swift surge to his loins jackknifed Cole into a sitting position. Now why would he have those kinds of thoughts about a woman who accused him of fraud?
Hurrying to the oak rolltop desk, he yanked up the telephone. Eleven o’clock. It wasn’t too late to call Cicely. Thrusting aside thoughts of Tibby, he went through his billfold until he found Cicely’s number. Then it struck him. This was a woman he thought he was serious about, and he didn’t have her phone number committed to memory. He knew the numbers of ten places that would ship sod anywhere in the world, and the numbers of twenty or so subcontractors. What did that say for his love life?
That he spent too damned much time involved in business, Cole decided as he punched in the sequence of numbers.
The phone rang repeatedly. He was ready to hang up when a sleepy voice answered. “Cicely?” he said. “Sorry, did I wake you? Who? Cole. Come on, it hasn’t been that long since we talked. No, I’m not calling from Italy. I’m in the States. Right here in California, to be exact. At my grandfather’s place out near the Salton Sea. He passed away.” Swallowing hard, Cole listened to her conventional murmurs of sympathy.
Between yawns she asked when he’d be back in Hollywood.
“I’m building a golf course in Yaqui Springs. I called to see if you’ll drive out for the weekend…Oh, you have plans for Saturday? An audition? Well, come afterward,” he said. “We have blue sky and clean air. I’ll cook all the meals,” he promised. Cicely hated to cook. Cole sensed the moment she began to weaken. “Good. Good. Try to get here before dark, or you may miss the road.” He gave directions, then listened to her grumble. “It’s not the back of beyond, Cicely. But it is secluded,” he added, his voice husky with longing. “You’ll love Yaqui Springs.”
After hanging up, Cole leisurely finished his beer. Then he strolled into the kitchen to take stock of his cupboards. Tomorrow, first thing, he’d hire someone to come in and clean. He wanted everything perfect. Dinner on the screened porch. Candlelight, wine—the whole shebang. Cicely counted calories and fat grams, but he made a pretty fair Mediterranean pasta, which he figured she’d find acceptable. He reached for another beer. Did Mack’s General Store carry things like feta cheese and angel-hair pasta?
Wondering that brought Cole full circle to the one person he’d been trying to forget. Tibby Mack. Striding to the window, he peered out. The fool woman’s house was still lit up like Christmas. How many of those damned tabloids did she print?
Mood greatly deteriorated, Cole dumped the rest of his beer down the drain. Snapping off the lights, he made his way to bed. The avid golfers of Yaqui Springs wouldn’t make any of their decisions about the course based on one small article, he reasoned. All she was doing was spinning her wheels. He almost felt sorry for her.
TIBBY HAD FOLDED the last newsletter and was carting the final batch out to her car when Cole O’Donnell’s house went black. My, look how quickly she’d begun to think of it as Cole’s house, considering that it’d belonged to Yale for as long as she remembered.
Had Cole found a copy of the note his grandfather had signed giving her that wedge of land? Tibby frowned. What if neither of them turned up a copy? Then Cole could stir up a lot of trouble. She was afraid he’d like nothing better.
Tired though she was, Tibby decided to search her grandmother’s papers. An hour later she closed her eyes and rubbed at the insistent ache attacking her shoulders.
Lara Mack kept records. She kept everything. It was just that nothing was in any kind of logical order. Important papers were thrown in drawers. Some were boxed but not labeled. Others had been tossed haphazardly into expanding folders. Tibby uncovered what amounted to a couple of years’ worth of correspondence between her grandmother and the office of the postmaster general. Mostly letters concerning the feasibility of establishing a postal center in Yaqui Springs. Lara’s theme—Tibby laughed over the unintended pun—was that driving approximately forty miles into Brawley every day to pick up mail constituted a hardship for senior citizens.
There were applications and receipted filing fees that Grandmother Mack had paid out of her own pocket. From all indications, she had worked harder than anyone to bring postal service to Yaqui Springs. And Tibby intended to do her level best to keep it there. Maybe she should suggest dedicating the building to her grandmother. Yes, that would rally the residents. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner?
She carefully gathered all the papers she’d found. Before the week ended she’d carve out time to drive to the courthouse and check on deeds. She’d call on her grandmother’s lawyer, too; it couldn’t hurt to pose a few questions regarding where she stood legally. His office was in Brawley. Yaqui Springs had no lawyers—or any other kind of professionals, either.
Slogging through her normal nightly routine, which consisted of little more than brushing her teeth and washing her face, Tibby crawled into bed and lay for a long time listening to the creaks and groans of the old house settling. She felt a wave of loneliness and stared into the darkness, weighing again the pros and cons of getting a dog for company. Not that she was afraid to stay alone. In spite of Cole’s lecture, she’d never felt nervous in this house. But every time she cared for Ariel’s hounds, she enjoyed talking to them. They’d cock their heads to one side and woof a time or two as if responding. Her next trip into Brawley, she’d go by the animal shelter and just look at dogs.
The alarm shattered the stillness, rousing Tibby from a pleasant dream—an unreal dream in which she and Cole O’Donnell were drifting around the Salton Sea in, of all things, her ancient canoe. Lord, it was pitch-black out. She reached over and shook the small alarm clock. Then she remembered. The newsletter. She wanted to deliver it early. She yawned. It seemed as if she’d just gotten to sleep.
Tibby dragged herself into the shower. The water, a bit on the chilly side like Grandmother Mack had always advocated, perked her right up.
Once she went outside and saw that a faint moon and a few stars still shone in the sky, she decided her moped might make less noise. It took only moments to transfer the stacks of folded’ papers to her saddlebags.
When she returned from making a circuit of the sleeping town, golden fingers of sun had begun to brighten the eastern sky. Her sixth sense told her that everything was going to work out to her advantage,
By seven o’clock it was abundantly clear that her sixth sense needed a complete overhaul. The early-morning golfers, who took coffee in her alcove before they headed to Bogey Wells to tee off, were embroiled in arguments with Winnie’s band of moped travelers. Ladies who rarely if ever saw the sun rise—except for today.
“Winnie, dear,” Joe Toliver said, sounding terribly condescending, “surely you didn’t think Cole would just sink cups out among the sage and call it a golf course. Naturally he has to clear the land.”
His wife stood her ground. “Frankly, when we signed the petition, I had other things on my mind—if you recall,” she snapped. “Tibby brings up a good point in her article. What provisions have you men made for preserving our wildlife?”
“What wildlife?” broke in Fred Feeny. “Snakes and field mice?”
Winnie pursed her lips. “You know very well that on our nature hikes we’ve seen coyotes, rabbits and ground squirrels. Even gray fox and bobcats.”
“Big deal.” Pete Banks snorted. “Anza-Borrego Desert State Park is only minutes away. Those animals will find homes quick enough.”
His wife, Justine, normally a pacifist, elbowed her way into the fore. “Clients ask for paintings of our desert chaparral. Who’d buy a painting of a golf course? Why does Cole need so much land?”
Pete gave her a cup of coffee and pointed her toward the door. “For God’s sake, Justine, a top-notch eighteen-hole golf course takes two hundred acres. Would you rather he sold out to one of the truck farmers in the Imperial Valley? Then we’d stare at miles of tomatoes or dates or whatever.”
“I assumed the golf course would be for those of us who already live here. In her editorial Tibby says if Cole advertises, we might have to contend with an influx of snowbirds. What if they decide to stay?”
“Snowbirds don’t like the heat, dear heart,” Ralph Hopple interjected. “Neither do they like snow. Hence their name. When the snow flies in their home state, like migrating birds they travel in droves to the sun. But when the desert hits ninety and the snow melts at home, they leave us again.”
Rosamond Gordon sniffed. “We’re not dumb, Ralph; We know what snowbirds are. Some of us were snowbirds once. We settled here permanently, didn’t we?”
Tibby listened to the quarrel heating up around her, growing more distressed by the minute. Her article had created all this discord. Never had she heard her friends disagree so violently. While considering whether to intervene—wondering if she could even make them listen—she saw Winnie Toliver beckon her group to the door.
“Come ladies, it’s time to rethink strategy. Let’s buy a. loaf of Tibby’s zucchini bread and we’ll make a pot of decaf at my house.”
Tibby quickly bagged a loaf and followed them out. “Would anyone be free to watch the store later in the week? I have business in town. I’d like a full afternoon.”
“I’ll be glad to,” Justine offered. “Especially if your business concerns the wildlife issue. I’m so mad at Pete. He can’t see beyond the end of his golf club.”
Tibby worried her lip. “Don’t blame the men. They must get tired of making the drive to Bogey Wells. I’m sure it’s Cole’s fault—for dangling this opportunity under their noses. He should be ashamed. Yale isn’t even cold in his grave.”
The women gazed at one another guiltily. The look went by Tibby. She continued to firm up plans with Justine. Then, as she turned to go inside, Tibby saw Joe Toliver and Fred Feeny measuring the post office. Pete, who obviously didn’t realize Tibby was watching, said in a voice that carried, “What if we jacked her up, put her on skids and sort of scooted her this way? She’s only resting on pier blocks.”
Joe shook his head. “The post office would still be too close to Cole’s property line for the county to issue him a building permit. We’ll have to brainstorm. Come on or we’ll be late. Let’s discuss it in the car.”
Tibby shrank into the shadow of the doorway. How dared they assume they had the right to move the post office her grandmother had built! “No more sweet Tibby Mack,” she vowed, watching them leave. “I’ll find a dog, all right. A guard dog.”
She was still in a foul mood when the man she blamed for the unrest in Yaqui Springs sauntered through her door a few moments later. Tibby finished cleaning up a mess of spilled sugar and crumbs at the coffee bar. Ignoring Cole, she ground beans for a fresh pot of coffee.
“Mm, that smells good.” He came up behind her and sniffed over her shoulder. “Is it for your use only or do you sell that by the pound, as well?”
Tibby turned and found herself at eye level with his chin and gently curved lips. Luckily for her he had his eyes closed and missed the start she gave when her knees caved. “I, uh, sell’a variety of specialty coffees. They’re on the far side of aisle four. This is vanilla bean. I stock almond and raspberry. Great after-dinner coffees. All decaffeinated. Most of the residents have high blood pressure, so they need to avoid things like caffeine. And situations that cause stress,” she emphasized.
His eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying I’m causing them stress? Golf is one of the least stressful activities. It gets people outside in the fresh air. Cardiologists everywhere recommend golf as a method of reducing blood pressure, in case you haven’t heard.”
“You’re a regular medical encyclopedia, O’Donnell.”
He shrugged expansively. “I’m here to buy groceries, not engage in debate. I have a guest coming for the weekend who’s a fussy eater. Do you carry things like feta cheese, fresh basil and bulgur for making tabbouleh?”
“Yes.” Tibby rolled her eyes. “A chef now. It must be nice to be a jack-of-all-trades.”
He leaned a hip against the coffee bar and studied her through half-closed eyes. “Are you aware that the residents refer to you as sweet Tibby Mack?”
Tibby released her breath and spun away. She’d been anything but sweet to Cole since he’d arrived. But when he stood’as close to her as he was now…“You said you came here to shop, O’Donnell. Why don’t you hop to it and quit harassing the management?”
Cole tugged on one ear. Lowering his gaze, he racked his brain, trying to think of something he might have said or done to make her so prickly. In the end he decided the problem, whatever it was, lay with her. Since it was out of his control, he grabbed a cart and started down the aisle.
Glad to be free of the tension stretching between them, Tibby puttered while Cole made his selections. She watered the hanging baskets of fuchsia and geraniums that brightened the dark wood walls. She snapped dry leaves off the pothos and trailing ivy that lent a homey feel to the coffee bar and small beauty shop. Yet she knew at all times exactly where Cole was.
A few minutes later Tibby rang up Cole’s purchases and sent him on his way with one of her most professional smiles. Thankfully it was the last she saw of him all day.
When the golfers popped in that afternoon, they weren’t as talkative as usual. Pete and Fred muttered that as far as the wildlife went, she was making mountains out of molehills. They reminded her there were rabbits on the greens at Bogey Wells.
That night Tibby went to bed with a splitting headache.
It hung on for the rest of the week. A steady stream of travelers kept her unusually busy. So busy, she barely spoke to any of the men who came for coffee every morning.
During a lull that occurred on Saturday—the day Tibby finally decided business had slacked off enough for her to go to town—Cole dashed in. “I forgot to buy candles,” he said. “Do you carry the short fat kind? And I’ll need a bottle of good white wine.”
Tibby directed him to the proper aisles. She didn’t want to serve him today and checked her watch for at least the twentieth time, waiting for Justine. She was eager to get on with her mission.
Time dragged. No other customer came in to offer distraction. Cole walked up to the counter in that easy way of his that sent a whistle of awareness through Tibby’s midsection. Her best defense was to get mad at him and stay mad.
Fortunately he provided the opportunity as he took the first item from his basket and placed it on the counter. “I asked around like you suggested. No one remembers my grandfather donating land for the post office.”
“What?” Tibby stopped feeding prices into the cash register. She gripped a bottle of expensive coastal wine by the neck. “Who’d you ask, for pity’s sake?”
Cole rubbed his jaw. “The group that headed out to play golf this morning. I met them on the road and we stopped to talk.”
“You mean Joe Toliver, Pete Banks and Fred Feeny didn’t set you straight?”
“They were among the people I spoke with, yes.”
Tibby felt a stab of anger. Those men knew the truth. Why on earth wouldn’t they stand behind her? Had they forgotten what it was like driving forty miles to pick up mail? “I know the land was donated,” she said angrily. “So do they.”
Cole tugged a folded paper from his back pocket and dropped it on the counter. “This is a rough layout of the golf course, clubhouse and pro shop. If the interest is what I predict, later I’ll add a restaurant. So you see, I need that property desperately.”
“Need all you want. I wouldn’t start breaking ground if I were you unless you put the clubhouse somewhere else. You aren’t touching that post office, O’Donnell.”
“Look, I pawed through most of Gramps’s files over the week. He has receipts of transactions dating back twenty years and not one shred of evidence that he gave you the land. Unless you show me proof, I plan to start clearing.”
They were nose to nose, shouting, when Justine Banks scurried in. “Sorry I’m late, Tibby. We met at Winnie’s for coffee this morning. You know how she is when she climbs on her soapbox. Is something wrong? You two having a quarrel?”
Tibby stuffed Cole’s groceries in a sack. “That’s putting it mildly. Instead of entertaining out-of-town visitors he should close up Yale’s house and return to Hollywood, where sneaky double-dealing is a way of life.”
“Resorting to slander now, I see. I do have a witness.” Cole turned to Justine, and the older woman sort of puddled at his feet.
Tibby shoved the sack into his arms. “I believe you were leaving?” she said with sarcastic sweetness.
“Gladly. And don’t hold your breath waiting for me to darken your door again. I’d sooner drive the extra miles to shop in Brawley.”
Justine’s head whipped from one to the other like a baby bird seeking a worm. “My,” she said as the door slammed on Cole’s heels, “it’s like Winnie said not five minutes ago. Our community cohesiveness is going to heck in a handbasket.”
“It goes to show that the person who said one bad apple spoils the barrel knew what he was talking about.” Tibby glared at the door through which Cole had departed. “But don’t worry, Justine.” She patted the older woman’s arm. “Maybe later today I’ll have news to mend this rift once and for all.”
Justine blinked owlishly behind her round glasses. “Yes, Winnie made that same comment. What time will you be back, dear?”
“I hope by four. Help yourself to lunch and try some of that new raspberry-and-rosemary tea I bagged today. I think you’ll find it calming. You’ll need to make sandwiches for the lunch crowd. There are still two loaves of seven-grain bread and one of sourdough. Tomorrow I’ll bake again.”
“You go run your errands. I’ll do fine, Tibby. Take some time and pamper yourself. You’re always doing for us, child. Do something for yourself for a change.”
“Like what?” Tibby balanced on the balls of her feet near the door.
“Oh, a manicure or a new hairdo. You’ve worn a braid since you were fifteen.”
“It’s easy-care and keeps the hair out of my face when I work in the gardens or stocking shelves. What’s wrong with my braid?”
“Nothing, child. But if you gussied yourself up a little, maybe the O’Donnell boy would be more amenable to putting his clubhouse somewhere else. According to Emily Post, a man can’t refuse a well-turned-out woman anything.”
“First, I’m not a child and Cole O’Donnell isn’t a boy. And nobody goes by that old bunk today. There’s equality between the sexes now. And I, for one, don’t want Cole to put his clubhouse anywhere in Yaqui Springs. I’d rather he did sell to truck farmers. End of discussion, Justine. If I don’t hurry, I won’t be back in time for you to start Pete’s dinner. I know you like to have it ready when he comes home.”
“Not tonight. I’m mad at him, too.” She flushed. “My waiting on him is part of that old bunk you mentioned. I think I’ll give him a taste of this equality thing.”
Frowning, Tibby marched back to the counter and collected her sunglasses and the drawing Cole had given her of his proposed golf course. “Isn’t that pretty rash, Justine? Pete isn’t exactly a nineties man.”
The woman smiled and patted her gray chignon. “Don’t fret, dear. After nearly forty years of marriage, I know exactly how to enlighten him.”

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_1ae56a76-31a9-553b-8d05-5f7ce2d215ac)
TIBBY COULDN’T BELIEVE she’d forgotten it was Saturday, and the land office was closed. Fortunately Gram’s attorney was in, but that visit proved nearly as fruitless; Lara had never mentioned the land transaction to him. However, the elderly Mr. Harcourt did provide Tibby with one ray of hope.
“I imagine there are strict rules and regulations concerning the relocation of a U.S. post office, Tibby. I’d be happy to file an injunction against O’Donnell to tie his hands until you get a ruling from the postmaster general’s office next week. However, it takes at least two working days to process an injunction. If I file Monday, it’d be Wednesday or so before the county served him.”
“Even that would help, Mr. Harcourt. He’s not at the digging stage, and I didn’t get the impression he’d rip out the building. He’s pressuring me to move it. But there’s no room on my property unless I stick it in the middle of my parking lot.”
“I’ll start the ball rolling, then. First thing Monday you get on the horn to Washington and see what they suggest. Meanwhile I’ll draft a letter telling O’Donnell of our intent to file the injunction. Sometimes that alone makes a person back off. If you’re going to be in town awhile, drop by later and pick it up.”
“I do have other things to take care of. I’ve decided to adopt a dog. The house is so quiet without Gram. I thought maybe a pet…Please point me in the direction of the shelter.”
“A pretty woman like you shouldn’t have to resort to canine companions. What’s wrong with the young men out there in Yaqui Springs?”
Tibby’s heart took a sinking dive as she thought of the only young man in Yaqui Springs. “It’s largely a retirement community, Mr. Harcourt. Not too many men my age retire.”
“Humph. Then if I were you, I’d sell Lara’s store and move. I recall her saying she wanted you to go away to college. Unfortunately, as we discussed after she passed away, she was badly advised financially and lost the bulk of her nest egg.”
“I love living in Yaqui Springs and I love running the store. I’d never sell it. I hope eventually to take some college correspondence courses. I’ve been checking into San Diego State. Now, about the animal shelter, Mr. Harcourt…”
“Yes…yes. But a dog hardly seems a fitting alternative to dating. Tell you what, my wife’s in charge of our church socials, and she teaches the young-adult Sundayschool class. I’ll have her send you an invitation to the next event. No matchmaking, understand. Just come and enjoy the company of men and women your own age.”
“That’d be nice. Thank you.” Tibby doubted she’d accept the offer. Unless the social was during the day. It was a dark lonely road to travel at night.
Harcourt drew her a map to the shelter. She thanked him again. “I’ll run by for the letter, say, at three?” He nodded and escorted her to the reception area.
Walking along the street to her car, Tibby caught her reflection in the window of a shoe store. Her steps slowed. Was her braid outdated? Or was it her loose-fitting cotton dresses? She’d noticed that both the secretary and receptionist in the attorney’s office wore suits with shorter skirts. No, by darn. Tibby gripped the shoulder strap of her purse. She liked her hair long, and she’d grown up wearing dresses. They were cool and comfortable, good for bending and stocking shelves.
Tibby stopped at a café for lunch. The place was crowded. The harried hostess acted as if it was a crime to eat alone when Tibby asked for single seating. Once they managed to squeeze her in, Tibby felt as if she had come with a crowd, since the tables were pushed so close together. Two couples on her left knew the people on her right, and talk more or less flowed over her.
As she dug into her salad, she realized that a majority of the men and women in the restaurant were paired up. Contemplating that, Tibby pretended interest in her forkful of greens. Before Justine and Mr. Harcourt had pointed out her social impairment, she’d never given it much thought. Was that how Cole saw her? Naive and inexperienced? A country mouse? He must know a bevy of sophisticated women.
Embarrassed at the thought, Tibby requested her check and left the majority of her lunch untouched. Awareness of her own inadequacies always made her heart trip over itself.
Only after she was safe in her station wagon did her heart settle and the trembling stop. Flirting wasted time. She had no need for such skills. A dog was what she needed to keep her company, and a dog she would have.
Less than half an hour later, she pulled into the shelter parking lot. Sharp barks and mournful baying pulsed from the building. Goodness, she thought as she entered the reception room, this might be a bad idea. So many dogs needing homes—how would she ever choose?
“May I help you?” A pretty girl with soft brown eyes greeted her over the din.
“I want to adopt a pet,” Tibby explained. “A dog.”
“A puppy, you mean?”
Tibby gave the question some thought. “Do you have any that are young but already trained?”
“We have a beautiful Pekingese. Very well mannered. Her owner died, and the woman’s daughter lives in an apartment where they don’t allow pets.”
“Oh, how sad.” Tibby’s heart turned over. “I had in mind something bigger, though. Like a guard dog.”
“That’s too bad. Peek-a-boo only has another twenty-four hours.” The girl’s brown eyes misted. “I’ve tried so hard to find her a home, but everyone I know is full up. I’ll even throw in food and a doggie dish.”
Tibby’s forehead puckered. “I know an elderly lady whose Yorkshire terrier died. She’d had her sixteen years. I wonder…She was brokenhearted. Still is.”
“Oh, do you think?” The girl sounded hopeful. “Could you call her?”
Tibby smiled. “I believe I’ll surprise her. It’s too easy to say no over the phone. It’s much harder to refuse a gift.”
“You’re a woman after my own heart. But I’ve given so many dogs as gifts, I’m almost out of friends.” The two shared a conspiratorial grin. “Now that Peek-a-boo has a home,” the receptionist said briskly, “let’s go choose you a pet.”
Tibby shook her head. “Do you mind picking one and bringing it out here? If I go in, I’ll want them all.”
“We have a young Great Dane. The man who brought him in claimed that when they got him they didn’t realize he’d grow so fast. It was a family of four, and all of a sudden they had twins. Between two babies and a growing pup needing attention, I guess it was too much.” She shook her head. “There are laws against giving away your kids, but people don’t think twice about dumping their pets.”
Tibby couldn’t bear to imagine what happened to throwaway pets. “The Dane sounds fine. May I see him, please?”
The girl disappeared through a set of double doors almost before Tibby finished speaking. The din rose unbearably. Tibby wondered how many dogs they had. A short time later the attendant returned. She cuddled a pugfaced champagne-gold dog. At her side trotted a sleek but massive tan dog with dark velvet eyes. He got down on his belly and wriggled toward Tibby. Then he raised a paw and rolled over. Tibby’s heart was lost. She knelt and scratched his chest, then his ears. “He’s perfect. What do I have to do to adopt him?”
The young woman explained the shelter’s policy, and Tibby paid the nominal fees. “I almost forgot,” she said, stowing her receipt. “Does my dog have a name?”
“Ah, uh, you might want to change it. The boys in the family named him Exterminator.” The girl made a face.
“Exterminator.” Tibby tried it out A smile twitched. Perhaps Cole O’Donnell wouldn’t be so cavalier about bulldozing his way over her property faced off against a dog called Exterminator. “But it’s just a name, right? I mean, he wouldn’t, you know, really go for the jugular or anything.” Tibby’s smile faltered:
The attendant laughed. “Just don’t hold red licorice close to a main artery. According to his former owner, the Dane has a sweet tooth. I guess that was the last straw. He ruined one of the kid’s birthday cakes. He can smell chocolate a mile away, and it’s hazardous to a dog. Our vet had a box of M&Ms in her purse. Exterminator nosed open the zipper and had the pack out by the time she caught him. Darn—they told me not to mention that. Now you’ll want to give him back, I expect.” She sighed.
Tibby considered for a moment. She stocked very little candy. Some of the residents were diabetics. She baked using raisins and blueberries. On rare occasions, carob chips. “Not a problem,” she said at last. “He can’t eat what isn’t there. As of now, he’s a health-food dog.”
Pulling away from the shelter, she wondered if it was safe to leave the dogs in her car while she ran in to Mr. Harcourt’s office to collect the letter. A needless concern, as it turned out. Both were apparently seasoned travelers. Exterminator claimed the rear of the station wagon and Peek-a-boo the front. The small dog made three revolutions then settled close to Tibby’s hip as they headed home. If Millie didn’t want her, Tibby decided, she’d take them both. She had a big house and no one with whom to share it.
The sad fact brought a catch to her breathing—heightened by a fleeting vision of Cole O’Donnell as he looked today. But he’d always been ruggedly handsome. She was the one who’d changed. Matured. Still, she was nowhere near as comfortable in her skin as he was in his.
Cole hadn’t said who he was entertaining this weekend. But he planned to serve angel-hair pasta and fine wine. Tibby would bet the store it wasn’t a male associate. She exhaled harshly as her spirits plummeted.
Exterminator reached over the back of her seat, whined and licked her ear. “Ooh.” She hunched a shoulder, then stroked his cold nose. “If you’re saying I should forget that charming rat, you’re absolutely right. But it’s easier said than done.”
The dog whiffled in response and placed a paw on her braid. Their two heads bobbed together in the rearview mirror. “Why do I need a man when I’ve got you?” she murmured. Apparently reassured, he bounded off to stare out the rear window again.
Once Tibby reached Yaqui Springs, her first stop was at Mildred Hopkins’s small mobile. As usual Millie sat rocking on her tiny porch. There was a time when her vegetable gardens had flourished. She’d let them go to seed after her husband died and stopped working in them altogether after losing her pet—as if she’d given up on life.
Braking outside the peeling picket fence, Tibby instructed the Dane to stay. The older woman ceased her listless rocking as Tibby climbed from her car.
“What’s that you’re bringing me, Tibby Mack? If it’s’ another casserole, you may as well take it home. The last two are still in my freezer.”
“No food today, Mildred.” Although it was on her list. After Henrietta mentioned that Millie had stopped cooking for herself, Tibby made it a point to drop by with nutritious offerings.
Peek-a-boo yawned sleepily and squirmed in her arms. Tibby strove to juggle dog, food and dish in order to close the gate. She knelt and slipped everything except the dog behind a wilting bush. “I went into town today, Millie, and I stopped by the animal shelter to get a dog. You know how I rattle around in Gram’s big old house by myself.”
Mildred’s eyes focused inward, as if she’d drifted away a moment. “Don’t pay to get attached to man nor beast, girl. Comes a time when they all leave you.”
“Not by choice, Mildred. The world is full of people and animals who could use a friend. Take Peek-a-boo, for instance. If I hadn’t gone to the shelter today, she would’ve been destroyed.” Tibby set the little dog down. The dog leaped right into Millie’s lap and snuggled in.
“Git. What are you doing? I’m not your mama. Tibby is.”
Tibby noticed the weathered fingers tugging gently at the dog’s silky ears. And she also noticed the doggie smile on Peek-a-boo’s face. “I wanted a bigger dog, Millie. I chose a Great Dane. But I couldn’t bear to walk away and leave this one to her fate.” Tibby sighed. “I’m afraid I promised to find her a home.”
“Oh, well…may be Winnie and Joe.”
“No. They’re always flitting hither and yon. Peek-a-boo lived with a retired lady. She’s content to sit and rock.”
“Mabel, then.” The woman scratched the dog under the chin.
“She’s off baby-sitting her grandchildren too often to take really good care of a dog, don’t you think?”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose she is. I’d take her myself, but—”
“Would you? Mildred, you’re a lifesaver. Or I should say, a dog-saver.” Tibby suppressed a grin. “She comes with food and a dish. She’s been spayed and has all her shots.” Tibby grabbed the things from where she’d stashed them and piled them on the porch. “Well, I’d better run. Justine’s watching the store, and I’ve been gone longer than I’d planned. The dog’s name is Peek-a-boo, remember.”
Tibby all but ran from the yard. She didn’t want to give Mildred time to reconsider. As it turned out, she probably needn’t have rushed. Looking back as she pulled away from the curb, she saw Millie talking nonstop and the Pekingese’s tail waving like a flag in a stiff breeze.
“Yes!” Tibby punched the air with a fist. “It’s a match made in heaven, Exterminator,” she murmured smugly; rubbing her pet’s huge square nose.
Her good humor evaporated a bit as she passed the O’Donnell place. Cole stood with two men—strangers—on a hill of blooming sage. All three checked clipboards they held, then gestured wildly. Tibby wondered what the trio was up to. If she wasn’t so late, she’d stop and deliver Harcourt’s letter. It was well after four; surely he couldn’t start tearing up the landscape tonight.
Parking in her normal spot, Tibby hopped out and hurried into the store. Exterminator padded at her heels.
Justine’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Tibby, don’t look now, but there’s a small horse following you.”
Tibby laughed. “Meet Exterminator. He’s one reason I went to town.” She spread a car robe behind the counter, then filled a bowl with water for the thirsty dog.
“Exterminator?” Grabbing her purse, Justine ducked out the other side. But the dog was too busy lapping up water to pay her any heed. When he lifted his head, water dribbling from his muzzle, he did look ferocious.
Tibby started to explain that he was really a pussycat. Suddenly she changed her mind. After all, what good was a guard dog if everyone knew he was a phony?
“Thanks, Justine. Drop by tomorrow. I’ll cut and color your hair for free. I know your time is worth more, but it’s something I can do in exchange for your watching the store, since you won’t let me pay you.”
“I like doing it. This gives me a break from painting and lets my creative juices flow again. ’Sides, I’ll never turn down a free haircut.” They both laughed as the door opened.
Through it burst a man carrying a huge bouquet of roses. “Tibby Mack?” he inquired, helpless to see around the greenery.
Tibby cast a stunned glance at Justine, who avoided her eyes.
“Don’t look at me,” Justine mumbled. “Check to see who sent them.”
Tibby continued to stare at the flowers. “There must be some mistake,” she said weakly.
“No mistake.” The man plunked the vase on the counter. “Sign here, please. It’s a long drive out from Brawley.”
Hands shaking, Tibby scribbled her name on the line he’d indicated. “But I don’t know anyone anywhere who’d send me flowers,” she insisted.
“Whoever sent ’em paid a mint for delivery,” said the driver as he tucked the pencil behind his ear and headed for the door. “We soak ’em for mileage.”
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Justine admonished when he’d gone. “Honestly, Tibby, I’d have that envelope shredded by now.”
Tibby touched one of the dark red buds. Then she leaned over and sniffed. “They’re gorgeous. No one’s ever sent me flowers, Justine. I can’t believe they’re for me. Let me appreciate them a minute, in case it’s all a horrible mistake.”
“Tibby, you’re too much. Florists aren’t in the business of making mistakes.”
“I suppose.” Almost reluctantly Tibby plucked the white envelope from its forked stake. Even then, she turned it over several times and patted her dog’s head before she finally slipped a fingernail under the flap and pried it open, never noticing that Justine had apparently lost interest.
Tibby frowned after reading the message. “They’re from Cole.” She tossed the card on the counter. “He says, ‘Sorry for everything. Forgive me, Cole.’ Ha! More than likely he had to run into Brawley for some piddling spice he forgot and realized how inconvenient it is.”
“Now, dear, he probably feels guilty about shouting at you earlier. Men have a tendency to speak first and think later. Why not enjoy the roses and let bygones be?”
“They are lovely, aren’t they?” Tibby’s features softened.
Smiling, Justine angled toward the door. Before she reached it, the bell over the top tinkled again. A pretty woman, pale-skinned with shoulder-length blond hair, poked her head tentatively into the store. “Excuse me,” she murmured in a smoky voice, “I’m hunting for Cole O’Donnell’s country home. I must have taken a wrong turn. Could someone direct me?”
Tibby and Justine exchanged glances, Justine’s one of surprise, Tibby merely rolling her eyes as if to say, Country home, oh, brother!
“You can see his house through that window.” Tibby pointed. She shushed Exterminator when he loped to the end of the counter and barked. “Driving there is trickier. If you’d like, I’ll show you on an area map.”
“Would you? And do you have any cold mineral water? It’s so hot out.”
“Hot? It’s barely eighty-seven. But yes, I have mineral water, juice and iced herb tea.” Tibby directed the newcomer toward the cooler.
The woman pushed her sunglasses up into her hair and stepped fully into view. “Thank goodness you seem civilized. I was afraid to stop in any of the dingy little towns I passed through.” She shrugged a delicate shoulder while inspecting the case.
Tibby took the opportunity to study the woman. She had wide violet eyes enhanced by liner and mauve eye shadow, and she wore a filmy little purple top and a fluttery short skirt that would have stopped a train on a dime. Good thing she’d driven straight through. Those poor farmworkers would’ve died of shock.
Silver hoop earrings and matching bracelets jingled when she reached into the case. If it’d been a man checking out those long bare legs, Tibby thought peevishly, he’d probably have swallowed his teeth.
“You known Cole long?” Tibby asked as she dug through a cluttered drawer in search of the map. She hated the hint of jealousy in her tone.
“A couple of years. I’m Cicely Brock, by the way. If you get an L.A. paper and read the entertainment section, you may have seen me. I’m in a new TV series.”
“Winnie gets the LA. Times,” Justine said. “I’ll mention it to her on my way home. How long will you be in Yaqui Springs, Ms., uh, Brock? In case Winnie would like your autograph.”
Cicely broke into a smile. “I’m only going to be at Cole’s till tomorrow afternoon. But I’d be happy to sign something. I don’t expect to be back. He’s usually on the continent working for classy resorts. I can’t imagine why he’s designing something out here in the boonies.” The woman took a dainty sip of her mineral water, then fanned herself, which set her bracelets dancing. “Are you sure it’s not closer to a hundred degrees? I can’t afford to get sunburned. My agent would have fits.” She gazed at Tibby as if seeing her sun-streaked hair and evenly tanned skin for the first time. “My goodness, don’t you worry you’ll wrinkleT’
Justine made a strangled noise in her throat, which she quickly turned into a goodbye thrown at Tibby.
Saying nothing, Tibby bent to find the elusive map. Triumphant at last, she turned with it clutched in her hand, only to find Cicely eyeing the card that had come with the roses. Tossing two dollars atop the card, Cole’s visitor stormed out of the store, not waiting either for change or for directions to his lane.
Tibby felt her stomach lurch. Until that very moment, she’d been unwilling to admit that, in spite of their latest battle, she longed for more than an adversarial relationship with Cole O’Donnell. Even when he’d gone away to college, she’d known there’d be women. But they’d remained nameless faceless women. Easy to dismiss. It was pretty hard to disregard Ms. May Centerfold.
Tibby knew it wasn’t very nice, but she hoped Cole burned the pasta or that the wine he’d selected had been on the shelf long enough to turn to vinegar.
She sneaked a peek out the window to see if Cicely had reached Cole’s house yet. If she stood on tiptoe she could tell. “Uh-oh.” Justine still stood in the parking lot, in a cluster of Moped Mavericks. The way Justine waved her arms, Tibby knew the ladies were getting a blow-by-blow account—of everything from the roses to Cole’s girlfriend. It certainly wouldn’t do to let that bunch see her spying. Jerking back, Tibby fussed with the shelves. Darn, she was tempted to take Exterminator out to explore. Stoically she resisted. Besides, her friends would see right through the flimsy ploy.
COLE RACED HOME after leaving the heavy-equipment contractor and the county inspector in charge of issuing permits. Since he owned the land, the inspector saw no problem with starting to clear it. The permits themselves would take a few weeks. Technically, county planners had to approve the drawings. Cole was confident his would pass muster; after all, it was how he made his living.
But he’d been a lot later winding things down than he’d planned. He hadn’t showered, let alone started the pasta sauce. By his calculations Cicely should be rolling in soon. Cole’s intent had been to have everything done except tossing the salad, so they could sit out on the patio and share a relaxing glass of wine without intrusion.
Stripping, he stepped into a cool shower. There was still one potential oil slick to mar his smooth sailing. Tibby Mack’s blasted post office. He hadn’t mentioned that little snafu to the inspector. Jockeying the location of his clubhouse entailed redrawing the entire plan and resubmitting it. Plus, he’d planned on using her traffic light. It was the only one in Yaqui Springs. As this wasn’t technically a town, he didn’t relish the thought of talking the county into installing another. He could just imagine it—weeks of costly traffic studies that would end with him paying some outrageous price for putting in a light. If the powersthat-be deemed a light was necessary.
Cole washed his hair, rinsed off, then blindly grabbed for a towel. He regretted having lost his temper with Tibby earlier. Unfortunately Tibby Mack had a way of setting him off like no other woman he’d ever met. He owed her an apology for this morning. And he’d have delivered it, except she’d been gone all afternoon. Where to? he wondered. Not that what she did was any of his business.
Irritated by his turn of thought, Cole took care laying out his clothes. Cicely liked a man’s slacks pressed and his shoes shined. She was big on people wearing the right weight for the right season, too, he recalled as he quickly discarded one shirt and selected another.
Heading for the kitchen, he strapped on his watch. Once there, he uncorked the wine to let it breathe, then decided to set the table on the patio while it was still light. He’d bought a candle in a shallow dish for a centerpiece. Nothing he hated more than breaking his neck trying to see the person seated across from him.
Was he nervous? Probably. It’d been nearly five months since he’d seen her. Cole didn’t kid himself that Cicely had sworn off dating while he was in Europe. They’d had no real commitment then. If things were to change, it was imperative that Cicely like Yaqui Springs, dinky or not.
Straightening, Cole gazed out through a ruff of pine trees toward the Mack place. Tibby seemed acclimated to the slower pace. Even when she was busy, she didn’t give the appearance of rushing. Her braid sort of floated lazily out behind her when she walked, the honey gold strands catching fire in the sun.
But why was he dreaming about Tibby’s hair when Cicely was due any moment? In fact—he cocked his head—was that someone at his front door? It sure sounded like it. Damn, now he’d be cooking, instead of relaxing. But maybe she’d like to shower and rest after the drive. Cicely had a tendency to be high-strung.
Cole skirted the couch on his way through the living room. When he reached the entry, he flung open the door, prepared to greet and be greeted with a lingering kiss.
Instead, Cicely exploded through the door, tromping on his new Italian loafers. Her spine carefully rigid, she paced the room in circles.
“Wake me at midnight, beg me to come for a romantic interlude—or at least that’s what I thought your call implied, Cole. Did you think I wouldn’t find out you’ve got another woman stashed in the wings? I guess you did, since it was quite by accident I found out.” She flung a hand dramatically toward the south wall. Silver bracelets skittered up and down her slender arm.
“Cicely, hold it right there. I have no idea what you’re raving about.”
“Ha! I’m raving about the dozen roses you sent that…that…funky…person, when you’ve never sent me so much as a carnation.”
Cole stared at her. “You told me flowers make you sneeze. That’s why I haven’t sent.you any. But I haven’t sent them to anyone else, either.”
“Ha!”
“Will you quit saying that?”
“Don’t lie to me, Cole. I read the card. Some drivel about how you’re sorry and would she please forgive you. I could hardly miss it. She left it on the counter for the whole world to see. What are you sorry for, I’d like to know?”
“She who?” Cole reached for Cicely, but she pushed him away.
“That woman at the country store. The one wearing the kiddy braid and sweet-as-apple-pie smile. That she who.”
“Tibby?”
“If that’s her name, yes.” Cicely sniffed and inspected her nails.
“Listen, I don’t know what you think you saw. I swear I did not send her flowers. We’ll go over there right now and get to the bottom of this.”
“You go. Get the card. I’d like to hear you explain how your name got on it.”
“All right, I will. I’ve opened a bottle of wine. Help yourself. Relax. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.” Cole steered her to the kitchen, where he pointed out the wine.
“Ha!”
Since she insisted on sounding like a broken record, he stalked out the back door, past the table he’d so carefully set and down the back steps. At the trailhead, he met Winnie Toliver. She clutched a crystal bowl full of green salad. Probably on her way to a potluck. Joe had mentioned that the residents held quite a few. Cole would have passed her with a brief greeting, except that Winnie grabbed his shirtsleeve.
“I hear you have a dinner guest, Cole. Shame on you for not telling us sooner. A man entertaining a lady shouldn’t have to cook. I’ll just leave this salad on your counter, shall I? Henrietta’s making you manicotti. Rosamond promised a dessert to die for. If you’re on your way to the store, pick up a nice bottle of red wine. A fullbodied red goes best with pasta.”
Cole started to object. Then he held his tongue. He didn’t know how long this mission would take. It’d be nice not to have to cook dinner and spend the time pacifying Cicely, instead. Smiling, he capitulated. “Thanks. Her name’s Cicely. I’d appreciate it if you made her feel welcome. I want her to like it here, if you get my drift.”
Winnie squeezed his arm. “You can count on me and the girls to explain the ins and outs of Yaqui Springs. Oh, and Cole—take your time. It’s better not to rush girl talk, if you get my drift.”
Feeling better, Cole watched her disappear down the path. He thrust his hands in his pockets and whistled softly as he sauntered toward Tibby’s store.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_8d5000ad-38c4-5556-bbd8-bbdc2a37e1d7)
WINNIE RAPPED SMARTLY on Cole’s back door before breezing into his kitchen. “Hi,” she said, setting her dish on the counter next to a surprised Cicely. “I’m Winnie Toliver, one of Cole’s neighbors. He’s such a dear. Everyone here thinks so. We’re delighted that he’s decided to come live in his grandfather’s house.”
“Live here? Cole?” Cicely plunked her wineglass down next to the bottle. “Oh, no. It’s far too remote. He has a nice condo just blocks from Wilshire.”
Winnie looked properly sympathetic. “It’s not so bad once you learn how to cope with the heat, mosquitoes and such. I see Cole set a romantic table for two out on his screened porch. I hope he remembered to spray for scorpions. The house has been closed up since his grandfather died. Where is the dear boy?”
Cicely’s mouth opened and closed like a fish taking bait. “Out,” she managed before another loud knock precluded anything else she might have said.
Henrietta Feeny bustled though the door and set a steaming pasta casserole and a foil-wrapped package of bread on the stove. “So you’re Cicely,” she gushed. “Welcome to Yaqui Springs. Any friend of Cole’s is automatically a friend of ours.” She nudged Winnie. “I see we have our work cut out to fatten this young lady up. Ah, here’s the very person to add those calories. Our Rosamond.” Henrietta beamed at Cicely. “I don’t know what decadent delight she’s brought, but knowing Rosie there’ll be at least a thousand calories per bite. Would you believe? All of us were once as skinny as you.” She patted her ample girth.
Winnie opened the screen. “Four-layer raspberry torte. Rosie, you outdid yourself. Here, let me put it in the fridge. I’ll pop the salad in to cool, too.”
Rosamond waved the rich confection under Cicely’s nose as Winnie made room on the top shelf. Closing the refrigerator gently, Rosamond introduced herself, then said she had to run. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave by the front door. I remember Yale—that’s Cole’s granddaddy,” she clarified for Cicely. “Yale had problems with rattlers nesting under his rear steps. Some say it’s too early in the season, but I’m a total basket case when it comes to snakes. Have a good visit, Cicely. We’ll see more of you, I’m sure.”
“Hi, everyone.” Justine Banks barged in without knocking. “Sorry to be so late. Rosie, don’t rush off. We can all walk out together.” Justine let the screen slam behind her as she thrust a tray of hors d’oeuvres into Cicely’s bejeweled hands. “Oh,” she said, catching hold of the younger woman’s fingers. “Those rings are pretty. And matching earrings.” She touched the hoops. “Dear me, Winnie, I hope someone warned her to put her jewelry in a safe place tonight.”
Cicely snatched her fingers back so fast she almost dropped the tray. “Safe? Safe from what?” Her eyes glazed a little.
Justine pursed her lips as she rescued the tray and made room for her quiche puffs on the shelf below Winnie’s salad. “Pack rats, lovey.” She closed the fridge door decisively. “Yale had quite a time—the little thieves. Clever they are. Carted away an expensive watch, a ring and one money clip that I know of. But Yale was so forgetful. You’ll be fine as long as you remember to keep everything shiny put away.”
The women pressed close to Cicely, all nodding and smiling.
Winnie snapped her fingers. “I believe this welcoming mission has served its purpose. Come, ladies, we don’t want to intrude. Cole will show up soon.”
“I’m sure he will,” said Justine. “I passed him going into the store. In addition to the chives I needed, I found the item you requested, Winnie.” Justine discreetly tucked a small white card into Winnie’s pocket. Two pair of twinkling eyes met.
Cicely teetered beneath the arch as the women started for the front door. She twisted her bracelets nervously, peering into shadowy corners. “Please, will you wait a minute? I just remembered a prior engagement at home. Let me leave Cole a note. Then I’ll walk with you to my car.
“You’re not staying?” Winnie pretended shock. The others tsked softly until their leader spoke again. “Well, if you must go, you must. Poor Cole will be so disappointed. I vote we leave him the food to compensate.”
Everyone agreed it was only fair.

THE MINUTE COLE STEPPED into Tibby’s store, he saw the roses he’d supposedly sent. The bouquet was gaudy in his estimation. Not at all like what he’d choose. Small buds in soft pink would be his preference.
Bending to inspect the flowers more closely, Cole jumped back when a menacing growl raised the hair on the back of his neck. A dog—a humungous beast—trotted around the corner of the counter, teeth bared.
“Good boy. Where’d you come from?” Cole knelt down slowly and stretched out a hand. He liked animals, although he’d never been in a position to own one. Another thing he’d do if he sank roots in Yaqui Springs—get an Irish setter.
The dog edged closer and sniffed. Cole scratched him between the sleek pointed ears. A pink tongue lapped at his wrist, and the long curved tail wagged.
Tibby backed out of her storeroom, arms laden with jars of honey. Seeing Cole making overtures to her dog sent a stab of hunger to her heart and a blast of fire to her cheeks. “Exterminator,” she hissed, “fine guard dog you are. Bring a burglar in and show him the silver.”
“This bruiser is yours?” Cole failed to conceal his surprise.
“Yes. I plan to teach him to attack on command. Come here,” she ordered, and was greatly relieved when the dog left Cole’s side to flop at her feet, his nose tucked between his paws.
“The store is closed. I assumed Justine would lock up on her way out. But maybe she saw you heading this way. I usually try to accommodate residents. If you don’t mind, I’ll shelve these jars while you find what you need.”
“I came about the roses.”
Tibby stammered slightly. “Oh. A-and I didn’t even thank you. Um, I guess we both flew off the handle this morning. The bouquet is gorgeous, Cole. Really, though, I never meant for you to drive all the way to Brawley for your groceries.”
Every line and feature of her expressive face softened when she gazed at those damned flowers. Cole wished he had ordered them, the change in her was so radical. And…she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “I, ah, didn’t send the roses.”
He glanced away from the embarrassment that quickly replaced the pleasure in her eyes. “The first I heard of them was from Cicely. She’s upset. Do you mind if I take a look at the card?”
“Help yourself. But…I don’t understand. If you didn’t send them, who did? And why would anyone use your name?”
“I don’t know. But the florist does.”
“They came from Brawley.” Visibly shaken, Tibby thumped the jars of honey down on the counter.
Cole fingered the empty pick centered in the bouquet. “Where’s the card?”
“There, beside the vase.”
He lifted the vase and peered underneath. “It doesn’t seem to be here. Did you put it in your pocket?”
“Why would I, for goodness’ sake? It’s not as if I had romantic illusions or anything. Look on the floor. Maybe it blew off when your girlfriend flounced out. What have you done with her? I thought you said you were cooking dinner.”
Cole felt his ears grow warm. “Eating takes second place to clearing up this mess. Cicely’s sort of…well, she’s, ah, jealous.” The last he muttered as he dropped to his knees to search the floor.
Tibby smothered a grin. “I’m sure that feeds your ego.
“Are you laughing?” Cole glanced up from his undignified position.
Tibby couldn’t hold the laughter in. “No…oo…ooo.”
“Dammit, if this is your idea of a joke, it’s not funny.” He scrambled up. “A lady I’m trying to impress thinks I sent you roses.”
Tibby curbed her mirth. “You can’t believe I’d send flowers to myself. Oh, and I suppose I have a crystal ball to tell me precisely when your movie queen would waltzin here this afternoon. Don’t flatter yourself, O’Donnell.”
“Then help me find that card so I can call the florist and clear this up once and for all.”
“Oh, sure. I’ll turn out my pockets while you search through the trash. I use that five-gallon ice-cream bucket behind the counter.”
“Is this the only rubbish you have?” Cole asked a few minutes later, after he’d checked every envelope and torn receipt in the round cardboard barrel.
Tibby swept one hand toward the coffee bar and another toward the back room. “Two more trash cans, plus the dumpster at the end of the parking lot. I’d help, but I wouldn’t want you saying I found it and kept it from you. I’m taking my dog home to feed while you dig around. Have at it!”
She showed up again just as Cole emerged, looking slightly unkempt. “No luck?” she asked, truly surprised to see he was empty-handed. “Well, I wonder what happened to the dumb thing. I swear it was right beside the vase. I figured it’d caught on something and made its way into the trash.”
Stepping around him, she yanked open one of the drawers behind the counter. There lay the map she’d held when his girlfriend took off like a shot. Tibby shook it, but nothing fell out. Perplexed, she said, “Why would anyone spend that kind of money playing a practical joke? And who, for goodness’ sake?”
“Beats me.” Cole cast a darkly troubled glance out the window. “I guess I’d better get on home. Maybe I’ll buy a second bottle of wine. Red, if you have it.”
“Sure. Top shelf, last row.” Tibby watched him choose one. “If the card appears, I’ll tuck it in your front screen. Otherwise I’ll go through the Brawley phone book I have at home and find the number.” She gave him change and bagged his purchase. “I do feel bad, Cole.”
“Thanks. It’s s a puzzle, and I’m stumped. I’m a fan of mysteries and usually figure out whodunnit way before the end.”
“Really? I read them, too,” Tibby said. “In fiction the next step after something like this is to find a dead body.”
“I’ll just have to hope Cicely’s not so steamed that it turns out to be my dead body.” Smiling crookedly, Cole left. Almost at once he stuck his head back inside. “Don’t forget to lock the door.” Then he was gone again.
She not only locked up but snapped off the front lights. Even in twilight the roses were pretty. Although a dull ache crowded out the joy she’d experienced when she’d thought Cole had sent them.
Closing her eyes, Tibby rubbed at a niggling headache. Obviously it didn’t take much to turn her head where Cole was concerned. Well, if she needed a dose of reality, she could visualize him and Cicely Sleepover. That’d do it.
Steps slower, Tibby snapped off the remaining lights. She welcomed the night as she made her way next door to a solitary dinner with her dog. At the door she realized she’d passed up another opportunity to give Cole the letter from Mr. Harcourt. But what did it matter? His mind wasn’t on clearing his land this weekend.

THE MINUTE TIBBY DOUSED the store’s lights, Cole was swallowed by darkness. He skidded to a stop where their properties joined to let his eyes adjust. His weekend certainly wasn’t going the way he’d planned. Instead of a nice romantic dinner, he had one woman ticked off at him and he’d inadvertently hurt another. The look on Tibby’s face when he told her he hadn’t sent the roses bothered him. It dredged a memory from the past. Her birthday. Her fifteenth. No, sixteenth. She’d invited him to a play at the Date Festival—Midsummer Night’s Dream.
He resumed walking as memories surged in. If he hadn’t been so hot for that tennis instructor, he probably wouldn’t have been so abrupt with Tibby. Recalling the pain in her eyes, he felt guilty.

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