Читать книгу The Third Mrs. Mitchell - Lynnette Kent - Страница 8

THE RED PORSCHE flashed by at an impressive 84.7 miles per hour.

Parked within the deep shade of the pine trees in the median, Pete Mitchell sighed, pushed his shades up on his nose, then flipped the switch for the siren and the lights and eased his patrol car into the northbound lane of Interstate 95. Another day, another speeder, another hundred dollars for the county.

Traffic was light at 3:00 p.m. on a Thursday and he caught up with the Porsche before five miles had passed, noting the South Carolina license plate. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror as he moved over behind her in the right lane. Her fist hit the steering wheel in frustration.

“Gotcha,” Pete told her with a grin, staying close as she slowed to a stop on the shoulder of the highway. After checking for oncoming traffic, he eased out of the car and set his hat straight on his head, then took his time getting to the driver’s window.

The windowpane slid down as he came close. A long slender arm stretched out with a driver’s license and registration sheet clipped between two pink-frosted fingertips. The diamond tennis bracelet weighing down that elegant left hand could easily have doubled as a handcuff.

“Trying out for a NASCAR berth, ma’am?” Pete slid the papers free. “I think you’ve confused Interstate 95 with Darlington Speedway.” He turned on his toe to head back to the cruiser, but one glance at the license stopped him cold. Taking off his shades, he checked out the name again. Looked at the face in the picture. Swore under his breath.

Mary Rose Bowdrey. Born May 1, 1974. Height, five-eight; weight, one-thirty. That hadn’t changed in ten years. Eyes, blue—the color, as he remembered, of the Atlantic Ocean at noon on a sunny day. Hair, blond—a rich gold shot through with streaks of silver which didn’t show up in the lousy license photo. Pete hadn’t known her long enough or well enough to be sure whether all that color was natural or not.

After all, they’d only been married thirty-six days.

He pivoted back to the window, automatically taking off his hat. “Mary Rose?”

The red door swung open. The best legs on Hilton Head Island during the summer of 1992—and probably every year since—unfolded into the sunlight. In one smooth move, Ms. Bowdrey stood up out of the car and faced him, pushing up the sleeves of her navy-blue sweater, tucking strands of shiny, shoulder-length hair behind her ears. “I don’t believe this. Pete?”

“That’s right.” He needed a second to remember the next line. “Uh…how are you?” His mama always said good manners could salvage even the most bizarre situations. “It’s been a long time.” Not that he could tell by looking at the woman in front of him. Still sleek as a cat, this Mary Rose could be the eighteen-year-old girl he’d spent that summer with. Married.

Worked so damn hard to forget.

His first ex-wife gave him a beauty-queen smile. “That it has. I’m fine. How about you?” With a faint clink of diamonds and gold, her hands slipped into the pockets of her short white skirt, heading off any impulse he might have felt to give her a hug. She kept her dark sunglasses on, so he couldn’t read the expression in those marine-blue eyes.

Pete didn’t need an interpreter for this message: Keep your distance was as clear as the nearby billboard for fast food and gas. “I’m good. Where’re you headed?”

“New Skye. I’ll be visiting my sister for a little while.”

“That so?” He’d have felt better if she’d said the sky was falling. The possibility of Mary Rose spending more than an afternoon in the same county he lived in, let alone the same town, was big-time bad news.

Why couldn’t he have been asleep when the Porsche passed through?

Pete shook off the feeling of dread creeping up his spine. “Well, it looks to me like you’re in kind of a hurry to get there. Speed limit’s sixty on this stretch of road, you know.”

Mary Rose bit her bottom lip, which was frosted with the same pink as her fingernails. “I guess I wasn’t watching the speedometer. I’ll slow down from now on. I promise.”

“I hope so.” Pete turned toward the cruiser again. “You get back in the car. I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”

Standard procedure didn’t use up much brain space, which was good because Pete registered a definite lack of available cells at the moment. Working on autopilot, he wrote up the ticket, logged in the information and ran a check on Mary Rose’s license. There were no outstanding violations on her record, which probably meant she’d talked the other suckers who pulled her over out of writing her up. Maybe she took off her sunglasses for them.

When he handed the citation through the Porsche’s window, Mary Rose gazed up at him, her mouth open in surprise. “You’re giving me a ticket?”

“You can contest the charge in court. There’s a trial date on the sheet. If you fail to appear, your plea of guilty will be assumed and you’ll be expected to pay the full fine.”

“But…” She pressed her lips together for a second, then relaxed them into a sweet, coaxing curve he remembered all too well. “Come on, Pete. There’s no traffic. I wasn’t hurting anybody. Can’t you let this one go?”

He wasn’t even tempted. “Sorry. You keep it under the speed limit from now on, all right?” Tipping his hat, he stepped back, needing to get away. Fast. “Good seeing you again, Mary Rose. Take care.”

Mary Rose watched through the rearview mirror as Pete Mitchell returned to his car. The man was still seriously gorgeous, being possessed of wide shoulders, narrow hips and a tight butt, plus those light gray, dark lashed eyes gleaming like polished pewter in his tanned face. When they were together all those years ago, he’d worn his black hair pulled back in a short ponytail, but the regulation highway-patrol buzz cut wasn’t bad at all. A little austere, maybe, but Pete had always been a straight-arrow kind of guy at heart.

That was why he’d married her in the first place, right? You got a girl in trouble, you took responsibility. If you were lucky, she lost the baby and set you free.

Her ex-husband had been nothing but lucky.

Blowing an irritated breath off her lower lip, Mary Rose put the car in gear, checked for traffic and eased into the sparse flow. Pete followed in his cruiser; while she kept the needle carefully set at sixty, he breezed past her with a wave.

“Oh, of course.” She hit the heel of her hand on the steering wheel. “Mr. Big Shot doesn’t have to obey the speed limit.” She threw him a furious glance as he took the next exit, once again vanishing from her life.

Or maybe not. He had grown up in New Skye, graduated in the same class with her older sister, Kate. Did he still live there? What were the chances she might see him again while she was in town?

Mary Rose shuddered at the thought, tempted to turn around and head straight back to Charleston, damn the speed limit.

But running away was not an option. Kate was in deep trouble. She sounded more desperate with every phone call.

And not even the possibility of another encounter with the man she’d never quite managed to forget was going to keep Mary Rose from standing by her sister during the worst days of her life.

Fifteen minutes after leaving her ex-husband behind, Mary Rose took the interstate exit for the town of New Skye, North Carolina. She hadn’t been home for at least six years; her final Christmas in college had been her last visit, despite her parents’ repeated invitations. Nobody climbed the ladder of success in the business world by indulging themselves with extended vacations. This was the first time since graduate school she’d taken off more than five business days in a row.

Anyway, it wasn’t as if she never saw her family. They all spent a week together in the condo at the beach every summer and a week skiing in Colorado every January. She talked to her parents once a week and chatted with Kate and her kids whenever either of them had a spare hour or so. That was as much family togetherness as Mary Rose, personally, could stand.

So now she studied her hometown with interest as she drove through. The outskirts of New Skye—with its service stations and fast-food restaurants, the water-treatment plant, the police academy, the firefighters’ training tower—could have been any small town in the Southeast. Plenty of asphalt, few trees and the flat Sand-hills landscape did little to invite a traveler to linger longer than it took to get a tank of gas.

But then she turned off the commercial strip to drive slowly along Main Street, toward Courthouse Circle. This wasn’t the dead downtown scene she remembered from her high-school years. On each side of the newly bricked street, antique shops, coffee bars and cafés inhabited what had once been empty storefronts, or worse, bars and pickup joints. The old movie house had been renovated and was showing an art film she’d seen advertised recently in New York. Huge pots of pansies and daffodils punctuated the sidewalks underneath newly-leafing pear trees.

Mary Rose clicked her tongue in amazement. New Skye had certainly changed for the better in her absence.

She was glad to see that some things remained the same, like the Victorian elegance of the county courthouse, standing tall on its island of bright green grass. Traffic circled around the red brick, white-columned building, one of the oldest in town—the fire of 1876 had destroyed all of the business district except the Presbyterian and Methodist churches, the courthouse and the Velvet Rose Tavern. Thankfully, the Velvet Rose had succumbed to its own fire only a couple of decades later. The downtown branch of the public library—still functioning, still imposing with its white marble—had been built in its place.

On the far side of Courthouse Circle, Main Street followed a single hill rising up out of the flat terrain. On top were some of New Skye’s finest residences, built mostly in the early 1900s, though a few dated back to before “The War.” Mary Rose doubted that the folks in Charleston, where an old building might claim construction in 1725, would be terribly impressed with New Skye’s “historic district.” Looking at the area with a fresh perspective, though, she thought the wide porches, fancy columns and wrought-iron fences were charming.

Kate’s home was one of the largest and grandest on The Hill. A semicircular porch graced the front of the three-story white house; the magnolias flanking either side of the brick walk must have been fifty feet tall and a hundred years old. Thankful to be done with driving, Mary Rose parked at the curb and got out, stretching her arms above her head.

As she started across the grass, the front door opened and her sister stepped onto the porch, looking for all the world like a Southern belle from the distant past. A cloud of soft dark curls framed her oval face and graceful neck. She was tall and slender…alarmingly so.

“Have you forgotten how to fry chicken and cook gravy?” Mary Rose took hold of her sister with a tight hug. “You’re skinny as a rail.”

Kate pulled back to laugh at her. “Says the woman who weighs all of a hundred pounds.”

“One thirty-five, as a matter of fact. I’ve developed a passion for frappuccino with my morning bagel.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’ve got a café here on The Hill that makes them perfectly. Come into the house.” They stepped out of warm spring sunlight into the cool, gleaming perfection of Kate’s home.

“This is beautiful.” Mary Rose surveyed the parlor’s rich combination of purple and gold fabric with mahogany antiques. “You do know how to dress a room.”

Kate waved her into a chair on one side of the fireplace. “How was your drive? You must have left early to be here so soon.”

“I drive fast,” Mary Rose said, and then frowned as she remembered.

“What’s wrong?”

“I, um, got stopped by a state trooper just a little ways south of town.”

“Did he give you a ticket?” Mary Rose nodded soberly, but her sister just smiled. “Don’t worry, honey. The D.A.’s wife is a member of my Sunday-school class at church. I’ll get her to talk to him about dismissing the fine.”

“That’s not the worst part.” She took a deep breath. “The trooper was Pete Mitchell.”

Kate gave her a blank stare. “Mitchell? Who…? Oh.” She pressed her fingertips against her lips. “That Pete Mitchell? Did he remember you?”

“He definitely remembered.” And the distance in those cool gray eyes had warned her that the memory wasn’t a pleasant one. “It’s kind of hard to forget being married, even for only a month.”

Kate shook her head. “I haven’t seen him in years. I guess I thought he’d moved away.” She faced the mantel and made unnecessary adjustments to the perfect placement of the Wedgwood teacups arranged there. “Do you suppose you’ll run into him again? I’d hate to have you uncomfortable while you’re here, worrying about meeting up with your ex-husband. That’s so…difficult.” The last word trembled with despair.

Mary Rose came up behind her sister, putting her arms around the thin shoulders. “I’m not worried about it one way or the other. It’s not like I’ve been moping over him for ten years.”

Kate’s head rested heavily on her shoulder. “And then there’s your job. I can’t believe you just up and left, during tax season, no less. Are you sure they’ll let you go back? What about all your clients?”

“All my clients got their taxes filed before the first of April because I pushed and prodded and nagged them to. I filed mine in February. And if the bank doesn’t want me back…well, too bad. I’ve accrued enough leave that I’d have to be here a couple of months before they could legitimately fire me. And they won’t. I make them too much money. So stop worrying about that.” She turned Kate around to face her. “What I’m worried about is you. You look so tired.”

Kate’s smile failed to dispel her very real air of exhaustion. “There’s a lot of yard work to be done, now that it’s spring. Plus the auction at the children’s school, which we just finished up, and the Azalea Festival, not to mention all the usual driving to lessons and practices and such. I’ve been…busy.”

She obviously didn’t want to go into any more detail right this minute, or explain why her husband, even after moving out of the house, couldn’t assume some responsibility for his children.

Mary Rose tapped the pads of her fingers gently on her sister’s pale cheeks. “That’s why I’m here, to take over some of the routine stuff. I can handle the driving, and help you with the garden, and do some cooking, too, though you might be sorry you let me in the kitchen. Just tell me what’s on the list.”

“Well…” Kate bit her lip, hesitating.

“Seriously. What can I do for you right this minute?”

With a sigh, her sister gave in. “If you brought Kelsey and Trace home from the soccer game at school, I could get the laundry caught up. Mama and Daddy are coming for dinner for your first night here and I need to put the roast in—”

“Consider it done. Just give me your keys. I can’t fit two other people in the Porsche.” Jingling Kate’s key chain, Mary Rose headed for the front door. “New Skye High, right? They haven’t moved it or anything?”

“You could drive there blindfolded,” Kate called across the front lawn. “Nothing has changed out that way in the last twenty years!”

“MY TURN.” Kelsey held out her hand for the soda can. Beside her, Lisa took a quick slurp before passing the drink.

“No fair! I bought it, didn’t I? You didn’t even leave me half.” Tipping her head back, Kelsey chugged the rest of the contents, feeling the whiskey burn as it slid down her throat.

“You got the first drink. Anyway, there’s more soda in the machine.” Her friend leaned close, lowered her voice. “And half a bottle of Jack Black in the car.”

“True.” The smoky liquor swirled in her head, and Kelsey smiled. “What’s the score now, anyway?” Out on the soccer field, red and gold New Skye jerseys chased across the grass, blurred into green Clinton High uniforms, separated out again. She couldn’t see clearly enough to make out the numbers.

Lisa squinted into the distance. “Score’s tied one to one.” She hiccuped loudly and then started to laugh. Helplessly, Kelsey laughed with her, leaning against Lisa’s shoulder until they both tilted back on the bleacher bench into the knees of the girls behind them.

“Kelsey? Is that you?”

Oh shit. A teacher. Kelsey straightened up and tried to stop giggling as she turned toward the person standing on the ground, staring up. She blinked hard, bringing the face into focus. It wasn’t a teacher. For a second, she didn’t recognize the woman at all. Blond and thin and tan and…

“Aunt M!” She never knew how she made it to the ground, just that she was there with her arms thrown around her favorite relative in the world. “I didn’t realize you were coming today.”

“Obviously.” Pulling back, Mary Rose looked her sternly in the eye. “Are you all right?”

“Sure. Of course.” Kelsey smoothed her hair back, wished she’d had time to pop a piece of gum. “What are you doing here?”

“Your mother asked me to pick you and Trace up after the game. It looks like that will be a while yet.”

“Um…” Gazing toward the scoreboard, Kelsey couldn’t read the numbers. The ground tilted under her feet and she put a hand on the nearby bleacher support to stay steady. “A few minutes, anyway.”

When she looked at Mary Rose, her aunt’s soft, pretty mouth had tightened and her eyes had narrowed. In that second, Kelsey knew she was doomed.

“What are you—”

“Mary Rose Bowdrey!” Mrs. Gates, the chemistry teacher, sailed toward them. “I don’t believe my eyes. When did you get into town?” Very tall and very pregnant, Mrs. Gates took Mary Rose in a hug that all but swallowed her whole.

Kelsey closed her eyes. Shit. Mrs. Gates had graduated in the same class with Aunt Mary Rose. Judging by their enthusiasm, they must still be pretty good friends. As soon as they came up for air, they’d be sniffing her breath and treating her like a delinquent.

“Uh…Aunt Mary Rose?” She tugged at the sleeve of a gorgeous navy sweater that had to have come from New York. “I promised my friend Lisa we’d go to the diner for a few minutes. The team always gets a milk shake after a home game.” Like she didn’t know that, like the kids at this school hadn’t been doing the same thing for nearly forever. “Can you pick me and Trace up there?” She tried on a suck-up smile. “Would that be okay?”

Mary Rose looked as if she wanted to say no, but then she glanced at Mrs. Gates, still holding her arm. “Sure, Kelsey. That’ll be fine. I’ll meet you at the diner about thirty minutes after the game ends.” Her expression promised there would be hell to pay afterward.

But for the time being, Kelsey was free. “Thanks!” She didn’t lean in for another hug. “See ya!” Grabbing Lisa by the hand, she scurried and stumbled to the other side of the bleachers, out of the line of sight of any nosy adults.

“Here.” She dug in her purse, brought up a dollar and thrust it at Lisa. “Go get two more ginger ales and meet me by your car.”

But Lisa shook her head. “Game’s almost over, Kelse, and I can’t go home smelling like whiskey. One whiff and my mom would take away the car and the license and ground me for the rest of my life. We need to sober up.”

“Screw sober.” Kelsey started for the drink machine.

“I’m leaving,” her friend called. “See you tomorrow.”

With Lisa went the whiskey. Kelsey stopped in her tracks, shoulders slumped. She could buy her own booze—she had the fake ID Trace had made in her wallet. But she couldn’t get to the liquor store without a car.

So she drifted back to the soccer field, to watch without enthusiasm as New Skye won the game. Wearily, Kelsey followed the crowd to the diner, listened to the same stories she’d heard all day at school, ordering a cup of coffee to mask the smell of liquor on her breath.

And wondered how her life had come to be such a mess.

AS FAR BACK AS Pete could remember, Charlie’s Carolina Diner had been the place for New Skye High kids to hang out after ball games, and tonight was no exception. Judging by the noise pouring out when he opened the door, the home team had won. Teenagers crowded into the green vinyl-covered booths along the walls, shared chairs at the tables, rotated and rocked on the silver pedestal stools at the counter that usually marked adult territory. Working his way through the chaos, Pete took the one empty stool in the back corner, under a framed poster of Elvis.

“Hey, Trooper Pete.” A thick-wristed hand with a Semper Fi tattoo on the back slid a white mug of coffee his way.

“Hey yourself, Mr. B. Standing room only tonight.”

Charlie Brannon nodded. “Soccer game went into double overtime, had to finish with a kickoff. NSH beat ’em three-two. What’ll you have?”

After fifteen years of eating at Charlie’s, Pete didn’t need a menu. “Meat loaf sounds good.”

“You got it.” A broad man with iron-gray hair and a permanent tan, Charlie headed toward the kitchen door, his stiff-legged stride the result of an encounter with a land mine in Southeast Asia in the sixties. He still wore his hair Marine Corps short and held his shoulders as straight as if he were standing at attention. He could bark orders with the best drill sergeants, which was why incidents of actual trouble occurred less frequently at the diner than at the public library.

Pete sipped his coffee, one ear tuned to the talk around him while his brain replayed the sight of Mary Rose standing out there on the interstate in the afternoon sunshine, close enough to touch. With a single smile, the woman had cast a spell over him ten years ago.

And damned if she hadn’t gone and done it again today. He’d been a basket case all afternoon, thinking about Mary Rose Bowdrey. What was his problem that he couldn’t get her out of his mind?

“Hey, Pete. How’s it going?”

He looked up to see Abby Brannon standing on the other side of the counter with his dinner plate in her hands. “Good enough. How about you?”

“Just fine.” She slid his plate in front of him, put out a ketchup bottle and moved the salt and pepper shakers closer. “You want something to drink besides coffee?”

“Tea would be great. Your dad’s looking good today. Is he sticking to his diet?”

Abby didn’t ask if he wanted his iced tea sweet or unsweet. She’d been pouring for customers in this town since she was twelve, and she knew everybody’s preference. “As long as I stand over him like a hawk and watch every bite he puts in his mouth.” Setting down his glass, she blew out a frustrated breath that lifted her light brown bangs off her forehead. “I haven’t been able to bake coconut pies for a month now. He steals a piece—or two or three!—in the middle of the night when I’m asleep.”

Pete grinned. “Too bad. I could go for a piece of coconut cream pie.”

She nodded. “You and me both. But the doctor said he needs to lose at least twenty pounds. So until he does, I guess we’re out of luck. With coconut, anyway. How about lemon meringue? Dad doesn’t like lemon meringue.”

“That’s a close second.”

“I’ll bring you a piece when you’re done.” Pete watched as she moved down the counter, checking on drink refills, laughing with the kids as she handed over checks written out on an old-fashioned notepad. Abby wore the same uniform every day from March through October—a white T-shirt, khaki slacks and running shoes. In the cooler months she wore a white button-down shirt and a dark blue sweater.

Year-round, though, she had nice, full curves that fired a guy’s imagination and got him thinking about something besides frozen pizza dinners eaten in front of the TV, or even the great food she served up at her dad’s diner. Assuming the guy had options in the relationship department, of course. Some did, some didn’t. After striking out at marriage—not once, but twice—Pete put himself very definitely into the second category. And so he and Abby stayed just friends.

She came back with the lemon pie. “Did you hear that Rhonda Harding has moved home from Raleigh?”

“Yeah? I thought she had a good job with one of the research companies up there.”

“She used to, but she and her husband got divorced and her mother’s sick.” Abby glanced at him, her green eyes crinkled in a smile. “Y’all were hot and heavy senior year.”

He shrugged and looked down at the soft peak of lemon filling on his fork. “I had to take somebody to the prom.”

“Maybe you can pick up where you left off. You’ve been living like a monk for a couple of years now, Pete. Time to explore the possibilities.”

“I am not a monk.” His cheeks had gotten warm. “I go out now and then.”

“With women like me—the ones you’ve known since kindergarten and think of as sisters. Not exactly high romantic adventure.”

“I do not think of you as a sister. And anyway, when was your last date, dear Abby?”

She took his teasing with a grin. “I just dish it out. You have to take it.”

“Yeah, right.” As he rolled his eyes, Pete caught sight of the clock over the counter. “Besides which, I don’t have time for—what was it?— ‘high romantic adventure.’ I race on the weekends and weeknights I’m at school with the REWARDS program. Can you put this pie in a box for me? I need to get set up before the kids start coming in at seven.”

“No problem.”

He was on his feet and thumbing through the bills in his wallet when the bell on the front door jingled. A single glance at the new arrival set him to swearing under his breath.

Her again. How bad could his luck get?

She’d pushed the sunglasses up on top of her head. Now he could see the deep blue of her eyes as she surveyed the crowded room, obviously searching for somebody. Not him, of course. Pete gave a second’s thought to the idea that he might escape out the back of the diner before he got caught.

Not a chance. Before he could move, she looked his way. And frowned. Mary Rose wasn’t any happier to see him than he was to see her.

That made him mad…and made him determined to talk to her. He put the cash for dinner down on the counter, stowed his wallet in his back pocket and headed across the room.

“Hello, there.” He had to stand fairly close to her to be heard over the noise, close enough to note the softness of her skin, the cute curves of her eyebrows. “Taking a tour of the old stomping grounds?”

The frown smoothed out into a tolerant smile. “Looking for my niece and nephew, actually. They were at the soccer game and said they were coming here afterward. I was talking to Lydia Gates and didn’t realize how much time had passed. But I’m supposed to get Kelsey and Trace home for dinner.”

“Hard to find anybody in this mob.” Was it his imagination that she smelled like honeysuckle?

“Especially with you standing right in front of me.” Mary Rose kept her smile steady, but she fully intended the insult. Having Pete Mitchell this close was interfering with breath and thought, with sanity itself. Damn the man, anyway. Why hadn’t he eaten at home tonight? Seeing him twice in one day was simply two times too many.

His dark eyebrows lowered as he stepped to the side. “Sorry. I’ll leave you to your search.”

“Thanks.” The tension eased a little as he moved toward the door. She turned around, pretending to look for the kids, but all she could really see was Pete’s face in her mind’s eye—the strongly set jaw, the well-shaped mouth, those serious silver eyes.

“Pete!” Abby Brannon held out a box from behind the counter. “You forgot your pie!” Her voice carried easily over all the noise.

Without seeing him at all, Mary Rose felt Pete hesitate, felt him appraise the necessity of brushing past her to get the box, then having to turn around to face her where she stood in front of the door.

“Keep it for me,” he shouted, his voice deep, a little rough. “I’ll pick it up tomorrow morning.” The bell on the handle jingled harshly as the glass door was opened, then swung closed.

Mary Rose drew a deep breath. Score one for our side. She’d managed to drive Pete Mitchell completely off the premises…a trick she’d never quite managed when it came to her heart.

AS USUAL, Pete got home late. Running the REWARDS program meant that he spent four nights a week at the high school. He rarely had a chance to relax before 10:00 or 11:00 p.m.

Even on a bad day, though, he didn’t begrudge the effort. Respect, Education, Work, Ambition, Responsibility, Dedication and Success—REWARDS—were the watchwords of his rehabilitation classes for juvenile offenders. He’d realized a long time ago that these at-risk kids needed somebody to draw the line between them and the life that would destroy them. A good group of volunteers in the police, sheriff and highway patrol offices joined him in standing that line.

He hadn’t exaggerated when he told Abby he didn’t have time for romance. Besides, he did have female companionship—Miss Dixie was sitting on the back of the couch, staring out the window with her tongue dangling, when he pulled up in front of the house. She disappeared when he hopped out of the Jeep and started down the walk, but as he reached the front steps he could hear the frantic squeals and pants and barks she used as a greeting.

As soon as he had the door open, the little beagle was leaping at his legs, almost as high as his waist. Grinning, he caught her up against his chest.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you, Dixie, darlin’.” She licked his face up one side and down the other, with a couple of swipes at his mouth for good measure. “Yeah, I know it’s been a long time. I got off work late, couldn’t get home before class. But I’m here now, so you get yourself outside while I make you a little snack.”

At the back door, she wiggled out of his hold and headed with obvious relief for the far corner of the yard. In just minutes she was back inside, though, licking up the small scoop of food that was her reward for a day spent all alone, slurping at her refilled water bowl. Business taken care of, Pete pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge and went out onto the back deck, leaving the door open so Dixie could join him when she finished.

Slouching down on the forty-year-old glider that was the only thing he’d asked for from his grandmother’s house when she passed away a few years back, he twisted the top off the beer and took a generous swig.

Man, what an afternoon. Seeing Mary Rose twice in the space of four hours had done a number on his brain. What if it happened again? Was he going to have to sneak around town like a burglar for fear of running into his first ex-wife?

Most of the time, Pete tended not to worry too much about the future. With his job, the future could come to a screeching halt at any minute; that was the reason his second marriage bit the dust. His second wife hadn’t wanted to open the door one day to the news that her husband had died in the line of duty. Pete had accepted Sherrill’s need to escape that uncertainty in the same way he accepted the uncertainty itself. Que sera, sera.

But tonight, the idea of turning a corner in the grocery store and facing down Mary Rose Bowdrey had him breaking out in a cold sweat.

“Really dumb,” he told Miss Dixie when she hopped up beside him on the glider. “She’s just a girl I knew a long time ago.”

Dixie stretched out beside him, inviting a rub on her very full stomach.

“Okay, so I knew her really well.” Pete stroked his knuckles along the beagle’s midline. “I couldn’t get enough of her. She was like royalty—I never expected to be with somebody so…so perfect. Totally blew my mind when she walked up that day on the golf course and asked me for a lesson.” He chuckled as he thought about it. “We both knew she didn’t mean golf.”

But then he sighed. “Major mistake, Dixie, darlin’, getting involved with somebody that different.” He finished the last of the beer, set the bottle on the deck and stretched out on the glider with Dixie on his chest. “Major mistake getting involved at all. I’m sticking with you, girl.”

The dog closed her eyes in bliss as Pete wrinkled her ears, massaged the special spot under her chin, scratched along her back. “You’re just glad to see me when I get here, aren’t you, Dix? You don’t spend your time worrying about me, and your only requirements are a full tummy and a soft place to sleep.” He let her settle against his shoulder and propped his chin on the top of her head. “No expectations, no regrets. You’re the only kind of female a man like me needs, Miss Dixie.”

Pete closed his eyes and got a vision of Mary Rose’s pink lips and blue gaze, the defiant lift of her chin as she stared him down in the diner.

He sighed again. “Let’s just hope I can remember that little piece of wisdom when the time comes.”