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the
cap with his fingers. “As I said, ‘long story.’ I’ll tell you
sometime.”
    So much for innocuous topics of conversation.
Claire had her own difficulties with family skeletons. “I want to
apologize for Jamie—”
    “ Don’t. He’s a good kid.”
    “ Yes, he is, but I want you to
understand. There was an incident. As you say, ‘long story,’ but he
was involved with a lot of sirens and lights and people asking him
questions. Most of the time he’s fine, but there in the truck, all
alone, not knowing what had happened to me . . . when he heard the
noise, saw all the lights, it was just too much.”
    “ I told you, no need to explain. I
figured it must be something like that. You don’t owe me any
details. I just happened to be in the right place at the right
time. I’m glad I could help. As it turned out, you didn’t really
need me.”
    Didn’t need him? “You kept me sane,” Claire told him flatly.
    “ No. You’re a tough lady. You’d have
made it on your own.”
    “ I’d still be out there, banging on
doors, trying to find someone who hadn’t gone north for the
summer.”
    Brad chuckled. “You’re probably right. As I
said, I’m glad I came along.”
    A flash of headlights signaled the arrival of
the tow truck. Not until Claire saw Brad Blue pay the tow truck
driver did she realize just how far her wits had gone begging. Brad
waved off her sputtered apologies, her insistence on writing him a
check. She stood there, cheeks burning, as he test-drove her car
out to the main road and back.
    Her problem was that Jim had spoiled
her . . . or, more likely, his tight grasp on the fabric of their
lives was all part of his Big Secret. Mustn’t let Claire find out . Car problems, house
problems, school problems—he had smoothed the rough edges of her
life with a genuine flair for getting things done.
    He had, in the end, even killed himself with
style.
    After Brad pronounced the Toyota fit to
drive, Claire walked with him to the pickup, where he stood looking
down at her, far too close for comfort. Her hormones waged war with
her pride. Fate had dropped this incredible hunk in her lap, and he
was about to drive away. Out of her life. Maybe she should just
grab him by the lapels and—
    “ Tell you what,” Brad drawled, “if it
makes you feel better, you can buy me dinner. We can trade long
stories. How about tomorrow night?”
     
    “ Lord love a duck!” Jody burst out as
she came charging back into the front office. “One of them even
wanted to know if the unit had a steam iron? Can you imagine
calling from Michigan for that? Ocean view maybe, but a steam iron ? Who irons anyway? Do
you?”
    Claire came back to the world with a rude
thump. The little colorful icons glowed on the screen in front of
her. It was morning. She was in the office. She was supposed to be
working, not dreaming about some schizoid developer who would
probably turn out to be cheating on his wife. She practically
dented the mouse as she shut down Windows in order to boot the
DOS-based access to the Multiple Listing Service.
    “ Uh, no.” Claire gave Jody a belated
answer to her question. “I almost never iron. It’s like there’s
some law that says you’re a wimp if your all-cotton doesn’t have
wrinkles.”
    She didn’t hear Jody’s appreciative laughter.
The words on the screen caught her full attention. Claire was about
to run the daily Hot Sheet, the list of all real estate activities
in greater Golden Beach, an area that stretched twenty-five miles
along the Gulf Coast but was only about eight miles wide, bounded
on the west by the Gulf of Mexico and on the east by the Calusa
River. Beyond the river, there was nothing but jungle and cow
country.
    But today something was different. The first
item on the MLS was always the list of messages. Usually innocuous,
even boring—the next meeting of the Board of Realtors, the latest
lecture in the on-going education series, but today . . .
    “ Look at this,”