In Harm's Way by Lyn Stone Page B

set on the corner of a street in what must have been one of the older suburbs of the city. Robin tensed.
    â€œHere we go. You’re about to meet the infamous Winton crew. They’re loud but fairly harmless. Looks like they’re not all here, anyway.”
    At the thought of meeting them, Robin’s composure took an immediate nosedive. She wasn’t good with people. On the phone she was okay, but in person she usually just faked a haughtiness that had served her well on the runway and at parties she’d had to attend years ago. It put off conversation and kept everyone at a distance. Not since her separation from James had she been forced to socialize with a group of people, and even then he hadn’t required much of that. At least he had understood that flaw of hers.
    She figured she ought to explain. “Mitch, I should wait in the car. I’m not very good at—”
    â€œShy, huh? Don’t worry, they won’t let you be,” he said, smiling. “Just slap on a grin and nod. They’ll be your best friends. Trust me.”
    That again. Robin sighed as she got out and followed Mitch to the door. Instead of knocking, he opened it and walked right in. Robin hung back, appalled by the act. She had never in her entire life violated anyone’s privacy by entering their home uninvited.
    â€œHey, where is everybody?” Mitch shouted as he barged right through the small foyer into a comfortably furnished living room. “I brought company!”
    A short, gray-haired woman appeared wearing jeans and an orange sweatshirt with a University of Tennessee logo on the front. She held a rubber spatula in one hand. “Hey, baby,” she said, hugging Mitch and tiptoeing to kiss his cheek. “Daddy’s gone to the store. You just missed him. Y’all come on back to the kitchen. I’m right in the middle of a cake.” She smiled sweetly at Robin. “Hi, honey.”
    â€œMama, this is Robin Andrews. Robin, my mother, Patricia Winton.”
    â€œMrs. Winton,” Robin acknowledged, immediately attempting to compare the smiling stranger to her own mother. There were no comparisons. Not in looks, not in expression, not in congeniality. At a total loss, Robin said nothing further.
    â€œOh, call me Pat,” the woman said, waving the spatula in Robin’s direction as she led the way through the dining room. “All Mitch’s friends do.” She nodded toward the stools surrounding a large kitchen island. “Have a seat. I’ll be through here in a minute and make us some coffee.”
    â€œI’ll do it,” Mitch offered, heading for the coffeemaker. “How’re the kids doing?”
    â€œFine. Mack made the football team. Finally.”
    â€œGood for him. Lily’s grades up any?”
    â€œNot so’s you’d notice,” she said with a grimace.
    Kids? How many were in this family? Robin wondered. And whose kids were they?
    His mother continued. “Paula needs a good talking to, Mitch. Boy crazy.” One eyebrow raised as her lips quirked to one side. She shared a knowing look with her son.
    â€œSic Susie on her. That’ll straighten her out.” He swiped a long finger along the edge of the bowl his mother was stirring as he passed by and licked the batter off his finger. “Mmm, pineapple pound cake. My favorite.”
    Pat Winton laughed and shot Robin a sly look. “They’re all his favorites. He’s a cake freak. You cook?”
    â€œMama, don’t interrogate her. That’s my job,” he snapped with mock anger, then looked over his shoulder at Robin. “So, you cook?”
    Robin gave a nervous little laugh, totally unused to this sort of byplay, though she did recognize it as such, and answered hesitantly. “Yes, but never cakes.”
    â€œThen you don’t cook, ” he declared. “I live for cake.”
    â€œIgnore him,” his mother said as she