are involved?”
“Charlotte and Spence actually started the program. Dylan and I were dragged into their volunteer workforce kicking and screaming, you might say, but now we both really enjoy it. Okay, I probably enjoy it more than he does, but he still comes to help when he can.”
“That’s terrific.”
“You should help,” Genevieve exclaimed. “You were a marketing director. I bet you could give Spence some fantastic ideas about how to get the word out about what they’re doing!”
“I don’t know—” she began, but the rest of what she would have said was cut off by the chiming doorbells.
She couldn’t say she was sorry for the diversion. She did believe volunteer work was a necessary and important part of life and had donated time as a mentor at a woman’s shelter in Seattle.
Right now, though, she was barely keeping herself together—and the past hour had only reinforced just how much work she had to do at Iris House before it would be ready for guests. She was too overwhelmed to even think about taking on a volunteer commitment right now. Maybe if she were staying in Hope’s Crossing for the long-term...
“Will you excuse me?”
“No problem.” Genevieve held up her tape measure. “I’ll just write down the dimensions of some of the rooms and make some notes while you answer the door.”
Even as she couldn’t wait to find out Genevieve’s vision for the house, she had a feeling those notes were going to cost her plenty before they were done here.
She was focused on the possibilities as she headed for the front door, her mind picturing Iris House filled with guests and laughter and life again.
Just before she reached the door, the bell rang again with an edge of impatience she didn’t miss. She pulled it open then could only stare for at least ten seconds, not at all prepared for the man standing on the other side.
“Dad!” she finally exclaimed when she could force her brain to start clicking again. “What are you doing here?”
Robert Drake raised one distinguished gray eyebrow as he let himself into the house without an invitation. He looked around the foyer and Lucy was suddenly intensely aware of the jeans and practical russet cotton work shirt she had chosen for the tour with Genevieve.
Robert was wearing a tailored blue dress shirt and Savile Row tie, of course. She had very few memories of him in casual clothes.
He reached in to brush his cheek against hers. “Why do you sound so surprised? Is it so unusual I would want to see my oldest daughter when she moves into the state where I reside?”
Unusual was an understatement. Her interactions with her father rarely moved beyond the infrequent phone call or hastily dashed email. She was a part of Robert’s past he preferred not to dwell upon.
That he would actually drive the hour and a half from Denver to see her was beyond remarkable.
“How did you even know I was in Hope’s Crossing?” she asked.
“Crystal mentioned it a few days ago.”
“Did she?” For a moment, she couldn’t remember even telling her half sister she was coming back to Colorado, then she remembered a few quick texts they’d exchanged the day she set out from Seattle. So much had happened, that seemed another lifetime ago.
“Yes,” Robert answered. “She said you were planning to stay a few months and work on Iris House. What’s the story? What happened to NexGen?”
She had absolutely no desire to tell him anything about it, but her father would push and push until she caved and gave him the information he sought. Robert was something of a legend at extracting information. He wasn’t one of the foremost criminal defense attorneys in the state because of his knitting skills.
He was a complicated man—brilliant, intense, focused and completely impossible to please.
And now she had to tell him she had failed rather spectacularly.
“NexGen and I have parted ways. Creative differences.”
“What did you do?” he asked in a
“Charlotte and Spence actually started the program. Dylan and I were dragged into their volunteer workforce kicking and screaming, you might say, but now we both really enjoy it. Okay, I probably enjoy it more than he does, but he still comes to help when he can.”
“That’s terrific.”
“You should help,” Genevieve exclaimed. “You were a marketing director. I bet you could give Spence some fantastic ideas about how to get the word out about what they’re doing!”
“I don’t know—” she began, but the rest of what she would have said was cut off by the chiming doorbells.
She couldn’t say she was sorry for the diversion. She did believe volunteer work was a necessary and important part of life and had donated time as a mentor at a woman’s shelter in Seattle.
Right now, though, she was barely keeping herself together—and the past hour had only reinforced just how much work she had to do at Iris House before it would be ready for guests. She was too overwhelmed to even think about taking on a volunteer commitment right now. Maybe if she were staying in Hope’s Crossing for the long-term...
“Will you excuse me?”
“No problem.” Genevieve held up her tape measure. “I’ll just write down the dimensions of some of the rooms and make some notes while you answer the door.”
Even as she couldn’t wait to find out Genevieve’s vision for the house, she had a feeling those notes were going to cost her plenty before they were done here.
She was focused on the possibilities as she headed for the front door, her mind picturing Iris House filled with guests and laughter and life again.
Just before she reached the door, the bell rang again with an edge of impatience she didn’t miss. She pulled it open then could only stare for at least ten seconds, not at all prepared for the man standing on the other side.
“Dad!” she finally exclaimed when she could force her brain to start clicking again. “What are you doing here?”
Robert Drake raised one distinguished gray eyebrow as he let himself into the house without an invitation. He looked around the foyer and Lucy was suddenly intensely aware of the jeans and practical russet cotton work shirt she had chosen for the tour with Genevieve.
Robert was wearing a tailored blue dress shirt and Savile Row tie, of course. She had very few memories of him in casual clothes.
He reached in to brush his cheek against hers. “Why do you sound so surprised? Is it so unusual I would want to see my oldest daughter when she moves into the state where I reside?”
Unusual was an understatement. Her interactions with her father rarely moved beyond the infrequent phone call or hastily dashed email. She was a part of Robert’s past he preferred not to dwell upon.
That he would actually drive the hour and a half from Denver to see her was beyond remarkable.
“How did you even know I was in Hope’s Crossing?” she asked.
“Crystal mentioned it a few days ago.”
“Did she?” For a moment, she couldn’t remember even telling her half sister she was coming back to Colorado, then she remembered a few quick texts they’d exchanged the day she set out from Seattle. So much had happened, that seemed another lifetime ago.
“Yes,” Robert answered. “She said you were planning to stay a few months and work on Iris House. What’s the story? What happened to NexGen?”
She had absolutely no desire to tell him anything about it, but her father would push and push until she caved and gave him the information he sought. Robert was something of a legend at extracting information. He wasn’t one of the foremost criminal defense attorneys in the state because of his knitting skills.
He was a complicated man—brilliant, intense, focused and completely impossible to please.
And now she had to tell him she had failed rather spectacularly.
“NexGen and I have parted ways. Creative differences.”
“What did you do?” he asked in a
Similar Books
