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arm.
    â€œThree kids, a mortgage on a house—a beautiful house, I know, because I made Lisa take me there just so I could see—and a golden retriever.”
    â€œYou saw all this?”
    Tears I didn’t want to shed forced their way to my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I used my free hand to swipe at them. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
    I didn’t see it coming, the compassion in Ross Claybourne. I didn’t expect it, really. Yes, I knew he was a gentle man, but I had not thought the tenderness would be directed at me. One second I was wiping away tears, and in the next I was wrapped in his thick arms.
    And I allowed it. Of course, I allowed it. It felt wonderful to be held by a man, something I’d not experienced since that doomed relationship years earlier. When we finally broke apart, I laughed nervously. “How silly of me,” I said.
    â€œHow very Gene Tierney of you,” he replied.
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œIn the movie The Ghost and Mrs. Muir , Gene Tierney plays—”
    â€œMrs. Muir,” I said in unison with him. “I remember that movie.”
    â€œIt’s a classic. And, if you remember, Mrs. Muir falls in love with a man—another writer—who she believes loves her too.”
    â€œOnly to find out he is married with children.”
    â€œIt’s a touching scene.”
    I looked out over the green. Afternoon was making way for evening. Visitors were few; most had gone home for the day. I sighed. “If I remember correctly,” I said with a lilt, “Mrs. Muir died at the end.”
    Ross laughed. “Yes, but she was old .”
    We smiled at each other in silence. It seemed to me that Ross grew uneasy, as if something was on his mind but he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it. Finally, he patted my knee and said, “I’d best get you back to the church so you can get home and I can return to the inn.”

    As was my Sunday habit, I’d left my cell phone in the cup holder of my car. A quick check showed I’d missed two calls from Jon and five from Lisa.
    Mercy.
    I drove home, the same house I’d lived in since birth. Shortly after they married, my mother and father purchased the quaint Cape Cod cottage situated on a quiet street just outside of town. Mom filled the yards with flower beds, herb and vegetable gardens. Dad worked little by little to add on to the house. A deck with French doors leading to the family room. An extra bath. A detached garage and, just before he left to start another family, a bonus room over the garage. When Jon and I were in our teens, we both used it to entertain our friends.
    I parked in the garage, hurried across the stone walkway toward the deck, and then unlocked the French doors to step inside. I dropped my purse and me into the nearest chair, flipped open my cell phone, and called Jon. His main concern was that I had been kidnapped by this stranger and sold into slavery. I assured him I was fine, that he’d been on the police force about a day too long if he really suspected that, and that I would talk to him later. I then called Lisa, who was nearly breathless with worry.
    â€œWhy are you worried?” I asked. I stretched my long legs, pointed my toes, and kicked off the sensible shoes I was glad to have worn that day.
    â€œDr. Claybourne got here just a few minutes ago. He only gave me the briefest of smiles, then headed straight for his room.”
    â€œThe cad,” I teased.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    I had to admit, I was a little perplexed myself. “I think we had a fun day,” I told her. “We walked through the green, we went to lunch at the Rexall, walked to the bay and got ice cream.”
    â€œWhat else? Anything else?”
    I shook my head. “Lisa, you sound like we’re in junior high.”
    She huffed. “I just want to know why he came back so . . . so somber.”
    â€œI don’t have any