Down by the River by Lin Stepp Page A

them. And you are right about my birthday being in October; it’s October the sixth. Although I think I won’t mention the year I was born or what age I’ll be this fall.” A touch of a dimple winked in her cheek.
    â€œYou have dimples.” He tapped his cheek as he spoke.
    â€œNot like yours and the girls’.” She seemed to study him then before she took a bite from one of the muffins. “Your girls are so charming, Jack. You’ve done a beautiful job in raising them.”
    Jack was taken aback at her comment. Most women didn’t even want to talk about his children. In fact, they usually avoided the subject.
    Grace crossed her legs gracefully, flipping her foot up and down rhythmically as she talked. Jack tried hard not to let his eyes follow the movement. Her bare foot and leg were tantalizing.
    â€œMeredith and Morgan have both been so gracious to me since I moved in. They come and help me with chores nearly every day. And they’re lovely to my guests. Actually, I’m so glad you’ve stopped by. I’ve wanted to ask you if it would be all right if I pay them a little something for their work here at the inn—or if I buy them a gift. Of course, I could have asked Aunt Bebe. But it seemed more appropriate to ask you. You are their father.”
    She looked up at him with those silvery blue-green eyes, and Jack found himself speechless—like a love-struck adolescent. Not the norm for him.
    Not seeming to notice, she put a couple of muffins onto a small plate and passed them over to him. “These are blueberry. I made them this morning. I didn’t have guests today at the inn, but Vincent so looks forward to my muffins.”
    She lifted a shoulder. “And the girls like to spread them with honey for an afternoon snack.”
    Jack bit into a muffin and realized they were homemade and still hot. The taste of warm blueberries and sweet muffin filled his mouth. No wonder Vincent Westbrooke wandered by every morning.
    Grace pushed her hair back behind her ear with one hand, and Jack found himself wishing he could have done it. She was a true blond, and her hair had a soft, silky quality to it. It fell just below her shoulders, and Jack could tell a professional had cut it to layer softly around her face.
    Leaning over to pour more coffee, he caught the floral notes of Grace’s scent again. Without thinking, he asked, “What’s the name of that cologne you’re wearing?”
    â€œIt’s perfume, not cologne. Called Pleasures. It was always Charles’s favorite.” Her expression darkened then, and she sighed.
    â€œWas Charles your husband?”
    She smiled. “Yes. We were married for almost thirty years. I still have wistful moments now and then, of course—when memories come back.” She looked at Jack. “Perhaps you do, too. The girls told me they lost their mother when they were only babies.”
    Jack scowled. “I have no wistful moments about the girls’ mother, Miz Conley.” His voice sounded overly harsh, even to him. “She walked out on me when the girls were infants. Left me a Dear John note to find in the morning. She discovered the reality of motherhood and being a wife unappealing.”
    He looked out into the mimosas, remembering for a minute the pain of that day. The shock and the hurt of rejection.
    A hand reached over to wrap itself softly around his. “I’m sorry, Jack. That must have been very hard.”
    He looked up to find her watching him.
    She traced a finger idly over his hand. He doubted she was even aware she did it. “Being hurt like that might make some men angry at women.”
    Not comfortable with her probing, he grinned roguishly and changed the focus of their discussion. “Well, as you know, Grace Conley, I’m quite fond of women.”
    She flushed and withdrew her hand carefully from his. “Maybe. And maybe not, Jack Teague.”
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