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restaurant and departed.
    Stepping forward, her client offered his hand. “I couldn’t interrupt a proud grandfather moment. I’m Jackson Ross. It’s nice to meet you, Serenity.”
    “ Likewise.” Eyes the color of rich brown velvet met hers and his grip was firm. Dressed in the same light blue polo he’d worn at the shore—khakis rumpled a bit below the knees, no socks and deck shoes, basic Croisette Shores casual chic—this man would fit in perfectly fine with the locals. His hair looked slightly windblown, which only added to his rugged appeal.
    “ Our friend Charlie left out a few important things when he told me about you.”
    Even though it sounded like a questionable pickup line, the sincerity in Jackson’s tone suggested flattery and nothing more. This man was the polar opposite of what she’d envisioned. Stereotyping never led to anything good, after all.
    “ I could say the same. For one thing, you have a furry companion named Freud.”
    He smiled. “Freud belongs to Doc Rasmussen. I’m staying in Doc’s cottage while he’s on an extended European vacation. And Freud takes me for a daily run, not the other way around.”
    “ I could see that, but you seem to be getting along famously.” She returned his smile.
    “ Yeah, we’re buds. He’s a fun companion, but he’s a real sofa hog.”
    Clearing a nearby table, Lucinda Miller called over her shoulder for them to seat themselves at any available table. Open from early morning until late afternoon seven days a week, Martha’s Cup & Such was the daily hub for gossip among the locals. Tourists occupied tables and packages from local shops rested on the floor beside them. A young couple with two small children looked tuckered out and sunburned, and four older ladies shared an animated discussion.
    “ Shall we?” Jackson gestured for her to go first, and Serenity led the way toward a small corner table. The heels of her sandals clacked on the black and white tile floor, but thankfully the sound was absorbed by the bustle of activity. A group of men hushed their conversation as she passed by their table. Many of the same waitresses from when her dad used to bring her to Martha’s on Sunday mornings moved around the coffee shop wearing black and pink uniforms with white aprons tied around their waists. The outfits hadn’t changed much, and the women moved a bit slower, many of them now grandmothers.
    When Jackson pulled out her chair and waited until she was settled, the entire patronage seemed as if in slow motion. Serenity could almost hear the whispered approval floating about the shop, but perhaps it was her overactive imagination. Since she’d come back to town, she’d glimpsed expressions ranging from pity to borderline suspicious. Hanging her purse on the back of her chair, she overheard old Earl Watkins mumble something about how nice it was to see her in the company of a real gentleman. She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear, as if that simple gesture might dismiss her sudden case of nerves.
    J ackson took the seat across the table. “Tell me about the name Serenity. There’s bound to be an interesting story behind it.”
    Those warm eyes, heightened by the blue of his shirt, would make her cr ave chocolate something fierce even though she rarely indulged. At least his question was an easy one and seemed a safe topic. Getting to know her client would be a good thing before they discussed business. She’d prayed about this first meeting ever since Charlie arranged it a few days ago, asking the Lord to help her say the right things, act appropriately and not scare off the good doctor with her lack of experience.
    “ My mom and Dad were quasi-hippies and loved anything promoting peace and unity,” she said. “He grew up in Newport, Rhode Island and she was raised in Connecticut. They shared a blanket on the lawn of the Newport Jazz Festival when they were both in their mid-twenties. To hear them tell it, they found a kindred