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entertained.
    Cynthia felt her stomach knot. But already the boys were clambering out of the car. The Wright boys were jumping up and down on the front steps, calling words of boisterous welcome to their friends. There was no turning back now. Cynthia steeled herself and opened her car door.
    Cal Wright was standing behind his excited offspring. He opened the door with a broad smile to welcome his new guests. Cynthia entered the home to which she had been admitted so many times over the years, feeling uncomfortably like a stranger.
    Judith had outdone herself, Cynthia noticed. Never had she seen the homey place so polished. No magazines carelessly tossed on the coffee table. No kids’ toys under the skirt of the sofa or peeking out from between the cushions. Every piece of furniture was gleaming. Cynthia could still smell the lemon of the furniture polish. And the carpet showed only a few indentations where visitors’ feet had made their way to easy chairs.
    She must have worked all Saturday, Cynthia told herself and then remembered that Judith had Cal to help her. He was good with the vacuum, Judith had often boasted. Their eldest, Erin, was old enough now to be a real help to her mother with household chores also.
    Still, Cynthia knew enough about family life to know that it took effort and organization to get the room so spotless, and even more effort to keep it that way from Saturday to Sunday afternoon. Judith likely had banned her family from the room.
    Cynthia felt herself being gently nudged forward. Aware of her father’s hand in the small of her back, she moved into the room. Already Cal was saying, “This is Cynthia Longley,” and the man occupying the plaid chair by the fireplace was rising to his feet. Cynthia let her eyes meet those of the attorney and wondered if he could read her mind. Did he know that she had been part of a plot to pair his widowed mother with her father? She felt her face warm as she reached to accept the offered hand.
    Her father’s turn to give the masculine hand a hearty shake meant that Cynthia, relieved, was able to turn away.
    A slight rustle to her left brought her head around. A lively looking woman stepped through the door from the kitchen, a big apron wrapped around her small frame. Her face was flushed a rosy pink and her forehead looked slightly moist. But the honey-blond hair was perfectly coifed and a warm twinkle lit her blue eyes.
    “And this is Mrs. Weston,” Cal was saying, indicating the bustling figure. Cynthia blinked. What was Mrs. Weston doing in Judith’s kitchen—looking like she belonged? Looking very motherly.
    The woman came forward, indicating the big apron with a good-natured sweep of her hand. “Judith was kind enough to find me one of her mother’s aprons,” she explained, still with that twinkle. “Dinner smells delicious. I never could stay out of kitchens.”
    She laughed, the sound soft and musical.
    She wiped a hand on her apron before she extended it. “I do hope there’s no gravy on it,” she said with another chuckle. “You must be Cynthia, Judith’s friend. I’m so happy to meet you.”
    Cynthia’s head was spinning. Had she been able to paint a picture of the perfect woman for her father, it would have looked just like Mrs. Weston.
    She accepted the hand and managed to mumble something she hoped made some kind of sense.
    “And this is Paul Standard, Cynthia’s father,” Cal continued. She watched in awed silence as her father acknowledged the introduction and exchanged easy pleasantries with the widow lady.
    “If you’ll excuse me, Judith can use my help,” the woman said with a warm smile that included them all, and she disappeared again through the kitchen door.
    Cynthia managed to find her senses. “I’ll … I’ll give a hand too,” she murmured to no one in particular and followed Mrs. Weston to Judith’s kitchen.
    She was afraid to look directly at Judith. Surely her own eyes would betray her secret. Her