The phone rang a handful of times, then transferred to voice mail. Even that didn't give any clue about the phone's owner because the recorded message was the generic one that had been programmed into the phone at the factory. Disappointed, I disconnected, stuffed the number into my pocket, and glanced around the store.

I'd been so preoccupied for the past few days, I felt as if I was seeing it for the first time after a long absence, and that added a layer of guilt to what I was already carrying after taking time away for the basketball team.

Time to get my priorities in order, I told myself. I'd let myself be distracted long enough. As customers came through the door, I put everything out of my mind and gave the shop my full attention.

My run-in with Dwayne Escott the night before had reminded me of my promise to deliver a box of caramels to Marion the next time I was in her neck of the woods. Between customers, I boxed up a selection of candies especially for Marion: caramel squares, walnut caramels, caramel peanut candy bars, pecan caramels, ginger cream caramels, b.u.t.terscotch caramels, and, in honor of the season, pumpkin caramels.

I took my time, selecting carefully to make sure I included time-honored favorites and a couple of new selections Karen and I had recently added to Divinity's repertoire. Once I had the box packed to my satisfaction, I peeled off my gloves, closed the lid, and positioned one of Divinity's gold-edged labels over the seal.

It wasn't until Liberty burst through the door like a cyclone, upsetting the peaceful atmosphere I'd been enjoying, that I realized she'd been gone for lunch far longer than an hour.

She blew through the seating area, tossed her sweatshirt into a corner behind the counter, and beamed in my direction as two customers approached the register. "Go on," she said, shooing me away. "You've got plenty of things to do. I can take care of this."

She smiled brightly and chatted with the women about the weather, keeping them engaged in conversation as she rang up their sales. She seemed to have everything under control, so I went into the kitchen. The sticky molds I'd used for the lollipops were still on the counter, waiting for my attention. I filled the sink with warm, soapy water and gave them what they wanted.

A few minutes later, I heard the bell over the door, and silence descended until I heard a voice behind me. "Abby?"

I turned to find Liberty in the open doorway. "Yes?"

"Need any help?"

"Thanks, but I'm just washing up a few things. Didn't Karen leave you anything to do?"

Liberty nodded. "A few things."

"Go ahead and do that. I'll be finished here in just a few minutes. "

"Okay." Liberty started to turn away but stopped herself. "Have I done something to offend you, Abby?"

I shook my head quickly. "Of course not. Why do you ask?"

"You always seem so . . . distant. It's almost as if you don't want me around. If that's the case, I'll go. Just say the word."

Standing in the kitchen and looking into her wide blue eyes, I felt about two inches tall. "You haven't done anything to offend me," I a.s.sured her. "I've just been busy. And distracted. A lot has happened in a very short time, and I'm not going to be around all the time. We hired you because I can't be here to help Karen the way I used to be."

"Oh. Okay."

I turned back to the sink, but she didn't move, and I realized we weren't finished talking. "Is there something else?" I asked over my shoulder.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Okay."

"Karen told me that you came back to Paradise after living away for a long time."

"That's right."

"How did you get people to accept you being here again?"

The question touched a nerve. I shook the water from my hands and grabbed a towel. "Are you having trouble?"

Liberty let out a soft laugh. "You could say that. I guess part of the problem is that I don't really know that many people anymore. I didn't spend a lot of time in cla.s.s when I was in school, and most of the kids I hung out with are long gone now." She leaned against the counter and crossed one foot over the other. "The ones who are still around are . . . I don't know . . . they're just not the kind of people I want to a.s.sociate with now. I've changed, I guess."

"So what's the problem?"

"Well, I want friends. Rutger's always busy, and I hate being alone. But you and Karen are the only friends I have, and I'm not sure you even like me."

Heat crept into my cheeks. "I don't dislike you, Liberty. I just don't know you very well yet. It takes me a while to warm up to people, that's all. The rest of the town is a lot the same way," I a.s.sured her. "Folks around here have long memories, but they're loyal. Just give them time."

She didn't say so, but I could tell by the look in her eyes that she didn't believe me.

"Obviously, you know people around town," I said, trying to encourage her. "I saw you talking to Dwayne Escott earlier." Okay, so I had a tiny ulterior motive for bringing that up. Sue me.

Liberty's gaze shot to mine, but I couldn't tell if I'd surprised or frightened her. "Dwayne. Is that his name? I recognized the face, but I couldn't remember who he was."

My eyes roamed her face as I tried to decide if she was lying to me. "Don't worry. I'm sure he never suspected a thing. You looked like you were saying h.e.l.lo to an old friend."

"Really?" She let out a relieved sigh. "Well, that's good. I mean, it was obvious that he knew me, and I'm always so embarra.s.sed when that happens."

My feelings about her did another about-turn. "Yeah," I said with a smile, "I hate that, too. So how do you know Dwayne?"

"We went to high school together. No, that's not really true. We were in the same cla.s.s in high school, but we didn't really know each other. I wasn't in cla.s.s often enough for any of those guys to know me. I was surprised he even recognized me."

"Those guys?"

"Yeah. He was one of the kids who ran around with Kerry Hendrix."

"Dwayne Escott was?"

"You didn't know that?"

I shook my head, trying to picture Kerry and Dwayne in the same room, much less the same teenage clique. I just couldn't get the image to form. "I had no idea. They were close friends?"

"Yeah, those two and a couple of others. I forget their names, though. I wouldn't have remembered Dwayne's if you hadn't told me." She slipped an ap.r.o.n over her head and grabbed the gla.s.s cleaner and a rag. "And then there were the girls. Always a dozen girls or more hanging all over them. To tell the truth, I had no use for them or the girls who thought they were so hot."

There was another image that just wouldn't pull together for me: Dwayne Escott being fawned over by teenage girls.

"Well, look," Liberty said, "I've kept you from the dishes long enough, and Karen wanted me to clean those candy jars before she got back from lunch, so I'd better get busy."

I nodded absently, still trying to piece together what she'd just told me. Lou Hobbs-or whatever his name was-had known Kerry Hendrix. Kerry Hendrix and Dwayne Escott were good friends, or at least they used to be. And Lou had been "shot" a few hundred yards from Dwayne's front door. If that was a coincidence, I'd run down Prospector Street in nothing but my underwear.

Chapter 24.

I slept fitfully that evening, dodging dreams about Marshall and Jawarski all night. By the time I finally gave up trying to sleep and climbed out of bed the next morning, I was not only exhausted but irritated with Karen for planting the idea that Jawarski might be upset over that stupid kiss in the first place.

My irritation took an upswing when I stumbled across the bag still holding the exercise pants I'd bought at Alpine Sports. I hadn't even managed to remove the price tags yet, nor had I bothered to buy T-shirts to go with them. Tossing the bag aside, I went through my usual morning routine from walking the dog to opening the store.

When Karen arrived, I loaded the centerpieces I'd made for Richie Belieu and Dylan Wagstaff into the hatch of the Jetta, settled Max in the backseat with a couple of rawhide chews, and pointed the car toward the Silver River Inn.

Like all of the historic buildings in Paradise, the Silver River Inn has survived a number of different lives since it was originally built. Back in the 1840s it began as a one-room schoolhouse, then grew as new rooms and extra floors were added on, started over as a miner's hospital, then becoming a library and finally an office complex.

Almost five years ago, Richie Bellieu and his partner, Dylan Wagstaff, bought the place, gutted it, and spent the next two years bringing it to life again as a bed-and-breakfast.

I grabbed a box of centerpieces and led Max up the two flights of stairs from the street. Inside the hushed, elegant atmosphere of the B & B I resisted the urge to tiptoe and turned toward the lobby, the sound of Max's claws scrabbling on the polished hardwood floor making me wince as we walked.

Richie stood behind the registration desk, and Dylan was busy with something near the front windows. As always, they both seemed delighted to see Max . . . and pleased to see me.

They've been life partners for at least ten years, but unlike other couples, they don't seem to be turning into each other as the years go by. Richie, who'd become a blond since the last time I saw him, is flamboyant, filled with enthusiasm, and usually more feminine than I am. That morning, though, he wore jeans so faded they were almost white and a sweatshirt with a peace symbol fading across his chest over a thin white turtleneck. It was an unusual choice for Richie.

Dylan, who is typically more reserved than his partner, keeps his light hair neatly trimmed and his clothing conservative. He wore dove-gray slacks and a chic gray and black matching sweater that seemed more suited for Richie's closet than his own. Maybe they were turning into each other, after all.

Richie swept out from behind the desk and wrapped his arms around Max, planting noisy kisses in the air near the dog's head. "Max, you old devil, you. We weren't expecting you until tomorrow-were we, Dylan?"

Dylan agreed they weren't, and Max, who adores both men, wagged his little stump of a tail with delight. Dylan pulled himself away from the lovefest first and grinned up at me. "Are those the centerpieces?"

"They are. You want to take a look?"

"Are you kidding?" Richie ruffled the hair on Max's head and stood to face me. "I can't wait to see what you've done this time."

I love that Richie and Dylan are both fans of my work, but I'm also a little nervous whenever I work for them. So far, they've been wildly enthusiastic about everything I've created for the inn, but n.o.body bats a thousand all the time.

Dylan took the box from me and carried it to a table in the dining area of the great room. "It's not very heavy. Are they all in here?"

"I have another two boxes in the car. I thought I'd show you what I've got first. If you want me to make changes, I'll take them back with me."

Richie clasped his hands together under his chin and swayed slightly from side to side. "Well, don't tease us. Show us!"

I opened the box, removed the protective wrapping, and placed a single cornucopia centerpiece on the table. Silk leaves and candy "fruit" filled the horn of plenty and spilled onto a piece of cardboard I'd cut into an eggplant shape and covered with dark green felt. Richie clapped his hands in delight.

As always, Dylan's response was more restrained. "They're going to look fantastic with the china," he said with an appreciative smile. "They're exactly right."

Richie grabbed one of my hands in his and tugged me toward a large leather sofa positioned in front of a blazing fireplace. "I don't know why you worry so much. You've never let us down."

Almost giddy with relief, I laughed. "Maybe one of these days I'll start to develop some confidence in myself, but I'm still worried about living up to Aunt Grace's reputation."

"Well, stop worrying. The centerpieces are perfect. Now, what about Monday? You are coming, are you not?"

I nodded. "I'll be here. Do you want me to come early and help with anything?"

"Don't be silly. You're a guest. What about Pine?"

"He'll be here, too-at least he said he would be last time I talked to him."

With a satisfied nod, Dylan headed for the sidebar where they kept fresh coffee and cookies round the clock. He held up a silver coffeepot that looked old and wickedly expensive. "Coffee?"

Leaving the sofa, I crossed the room to look at the piece. "Is this new?"

Richie trailed behind me, clearly delighted that I'd noticed. "Yes, it is. Gorgeous, isn't it?"

"It's beautiful." The coffeepot wasn't the only thing new on the sideboard. A four-piece coffee service sat on a matching silver tray, each piece elaborately decorated with curlicues and silver roses. I don't know a lot about antiques, but I recognize quality when I see it. "Where did you find this?"

Dylan laughed aloud and nodded toward the street. "There's a new antique shop across the street-the Ivy Attic-and it's fabulous. This set is nineteenth-century, German sterling silver."

I ran a finger across the rose on the sugar bowl's lid. "I've heard about the shop, but I never dreamed they'd be selling something like this. It's breathtaking."

"And it's just the beginning." Richie dragged me back to the sofa again. "You should see some of the pieces she has over there. There's a pair of nineteenth-century French wall mirrors in the back room that I'm head over heels for." He smiled at Dylan across the room. "Not that anything could take your place, love."

Dylan returned the smile and filled three cups. "As you can tell, we've found a new hobby. It's all I can do to keep Richie from going over there every day."

Richie wagged a hand in a dismissive gesture. "He thinks I'm going to bankrupt us, but I'm not that far gone. I just don't think a few well-placed pieces would hurt our reputation, that's all."

I didn't want to get drawn into an argument between them, so I accepted the cup Dylan offered me and said, "The coffee set certainly is beautiful. How long has the shop been there?"

"A month?" Richie shared a look with Dylan, and they spoke in shorthand the way couples who've been together for a while do. "One? Are you-?" . . . "Didn't she open the weekend-?" . . . "Oh, that's right. That's when-" . . . "Exactly. Shae and Donovan, and that horrid sweater." With the details decided, Richie looked at me again. "About two months, I guess. She opened around the first of September. You really should go check it out. You might even find a few things for Divinity."

I was suddenly, strangely envious of the closeness they shared. My ex-husband and I had had that once-at least I'd thought we had-and I missed it . . . or at any rate, I missed believing that I had it. Finding out about Roger's affair had left me wondering about everything I'd once believed in.

Watching Dylan and Richie exchanging glances, I thought about Marshall kissing me and about Karen's warnings that I should tell Jawarski or risk losing him. It was hard for me to believe that Jawarski would make a big deal out of a little kiss, especially when I hadn't even been a willing partic.i.p.ant. But what if I was wrong?

I didn't want to be with someone who flipped out over little, inconsequential things, and I hated the idea of jealousy, but deep inside I knew that Jawarski wasn't the type to fly off the handle without reason.

The kiss wouldn't bother him . . . but the lie would.

Chapter 25.

Maybe I should talk to Jawarski, but I couldn't see any reason to rush things. I needed a little while to think about how I was going to approach him, exactly how to tell him about Marshall without making it sound as if I'd stepped over the line or that I was imagining a line that didn't exist.

We'd spent so many months tiptoeing around each other, I didn't really know where we stood, and I didn't want him to think I was a.s.suming more than he intended. In short, it was a conversation I knew I had to have but still didn't want to.

No matter how slowly I sipped, it didn't take anywhere near long enough to drink the coffee, and in spite of my protests that he didn't have to, Dylan insisted on carrying one of the two remaining boxes of centerpieces up the stairs, cutting another excuse for procrastination in half. For once, Richie's accounting package worked without a single glitch, and less than half an hour later I descended the stairs for the final time.

I was almost to street level when the ornate sign for the Ivy Attic, in the window of a Victorian-style house across the street, caught my eye and gave me the excuse I'd been looking for to put off talking to Jawarski. Not that we needed antiques at Divinity, but as Richie said, you never knew. Besides, as a member of the Downtown Merchants' Alliance, it was my civic duty to welcome a new business owner to the community.