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sweetie. You weren’t supposed to be here until late this afternoon.” Martha Dorn propped her rake against the dark trunk of the huge redbud tree that dominated the yard and held out her arms. “It’s so good to see you. It’s been too long.”
    Emma returned her grandmother’s hug. “I was here just three weeks ago.” It had been a beautiful fall weekend, the maples and oaks in all their glory, the bed and breakfast filled to the rafters with guests. It was the weekend she’d accepted Daryl’s proposal of marriage—just days before she’d seen him with the woman in the restaurant.
    “I miss you,” Martha said, tightening her embrace. “It seems longer. Have you heard from your parents?”
    “Last Wednesday. They’re fine and they send their love.”
    Martha stepped back, her bright gaze zeroing in on Blake Weston. “I’m forgetting my manners. Introduce me to your friend, Emma.”
    Emma stopped herself from saying Blake wasn’t a friend—that would only complicate the situation even more. “Blake Weston, this is my grandmother, Martha Dorn. Blake is a guest at Twin Oaks and he’s badly in need of Granddad’s restorative.”
    Her grandmother removed her gardening glove and held out her hand. “A little under the weather, are we, Mr. Weston?” she inquired.
    Emma held her breath, hoping Blake wouldn’t squeeze Martha’s fingers too tightly and cause her pain. She should have warned him about her grandmother’s arthritis, but there hadn’t been time.
    “I’m afraid so, ma’am,” Blake said, equally polite as he folded Martha’s small, arthritis-ravaged hand gently within his own.
    The slightly wary look in Martha’s gray eyes vanished as she withdrew her hand. “Then you came to the right place. My husband’s restorative works wonders. I can tell you so from my own experience—many years ago, of course. I don’t drink alcohol anymore these days. Too many medications to take. The bane of growing old, Mr. Weston,” she said, gesturing toward the house, her movements graceful despite her condition. “The body can no longer keep up with the desires of the mind or the heart. At least until Viagra came along.” She tilted her head to gauge Blake’s response to her slightly risqué comment, seemed satisfied with the momentarily stunned expression on his face and continued, “Does it surprise you I’d be familiar with the drug, Mr. Weston?”
    “No, ma’am,” he replied, and wisely left it at that.
    “A response worthy of my son-in-law,” she said with the same chiming laughter that had attracted Emma’s grandfather more than half a century earlier. “He’s in the diplomatic corps, you know. Please, come inside. I’ll tell my husband we have visitors. Or more precisely that he has a patient.”
    “Granddad’s officially retired,” Emma informed Blake as they moved up the brick walkway to the recessed front door with its antique, leaded-glass fanlight. “But Cooper’s Corner is too small to have a doctor of its own, so he spends a lot of time looking in on friends and neighbors. And he’s a member of the town rescue squad, too.”
    “Then he must value his leisure time,” Blake said, hanging back a step. “I’ll survive this hangover without the restorative.”
    “Don’t be silly. Felix couldn’t be prouder if he’d invented penicillin. He loves to see that concoction work, right, Emma?”
    “Yes, Nana.” Emma hurried to open the heavy oak door for her grandmother. Blake reached out a long arm and pulled it shut behind them as they entered the small, narrow foyer with its shining pine floor and pale green walls.
    “Felix. Guess who’s here? It’s Emma Martha. And she’s brought a friend in need of your elixir.” Martha turned her smile on Blake once more as she motioned them to follow her through the doorway under the stairs into her husband’s study. The sound of a college football pregame show could be heard coming from the enormous entertainment center that