Shadows on the Sand by Gayle Roper Page B

every bit as impossible as Marley’s materialization.
    His phone vibrated on his hip. He grabbed at it, grateful for something to break this painful moment.
    The caller ID read Fred Durning.
    “I need to take this call.” He stood. “It’s a guy about the closing on the property sales tomorrow.”
    “Sure.” Carrie pointed toward the front of the apartment. “The living room’s through there.”
    He nodded. At least she hadn’t sent him out the door. He slid his phone open as he walked into a warm, inviting room. Why it appealed to him he couldn’t have said. He just knew the room stilled the chaos swirling inside.
    “What can I do for you, Fred?”
    “Hey, Greg. Tomorrow’s the big day. When and where can we meet?”
    Someplace neutral. Someplace friendly. “How about we start with a cup of coffee at Carrie’s Café?” He gave the address. “Ten o’clock sound okay?”
    Appointment made, Greg slid the phone shut and just stood there. He stared at the rug, a light gray. He had to go back to the kitchen, back to Carrie. He wanted to, but at the same time he didn’t. He’d spent three years keeping life as complication free as he could manage. He’d liked it that way, and Carrie was a complication with a capital
C
.
    But the voice was right. It was time to move on, to live again. As it saidin Ecclesiastes, there was a time to mourn and a time to dance. Had he at last come to the dancing time after the long, black stretch of mourning?
    “Everything okay for tomorrow?”
    Carrie stood just inside the room, caught in a stray beam of sun, like a carefully staged frame in a film. Her shoulder-length blond hair gleamed and her steady navy blue eyes studied him. She was slim, a little taller than Ginny had been, and at this moment she appeared so female he didn’t know how to react. Or rather he did, and that scared him.
    “Everything okay?” she asked again.
    He blinked and held out his phone. “I’m meeting the guy tomorrow at the café.”
    She smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s nice.”
    “Make certain there are a couple of sticky buns for us, okay?”
    “Sure. Not a problem.”
    He had to walk back to the kitchen, but he’d have to pass her in the narrow doorway to do so, feel her body heat, smell her scent. But he couldn’t stay flatfooted in her living room, staring at her like some lost Rain Man. “Um, I’ve got to go. Get back to work.”
    She nodded, turned, and walked into the kitchen. He followed her, feeling the fool, but at least he didn’t have to walk past her.
    “See you later, Mary P, Lindsay,” he said. They smiled and waved. Carrie held the back door for him, and he had to pass her after all. It was as if she’d burn him if he got too close. Which was ridiculous. She was just Carrie. Sweet Carrie. Lovely Carrie.
    He swallowed hard. Had he been so conscious of Ginny when they first dated? He must have been, right? He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that Carrie Carter, in one afternoon’s time, had struck him a heart blow without even knowing it.
    She followed him onto the porch, where she was forced to stand close because of the landing’s small size. The air snapped around them.
    “Thanks for all your help,” he managed. He pointed to his battered face. “And for your peas.”
    She waved his thanks away. “Always glad to share a vegetable with a friend.”
    A friend. “Look, Carrie,” he began but didn’t know how to continue.
    Look, Carrie, saying Ginny’s name didn’t mean anything?
Because it did, but not as Carrie clearly thought.
    Look, Carrie, I think there might be the very real possibility of something between you and me? And Ginny approves?
    “And you know this how?”
she’d ask.
    “She told me.”
And wouldn’t that sound just fine. Carrie’d be certain he’d suffered a concussion after all. Which he must have.
    “It’s okay, Greg. It’s okay.” Again that sad smile.
    And Carrie went inside, closing the door softly.

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