“What baby?”

Peyton sighed as if trapped. “Well, everyone knows. It’s been easier for her, really, since everyone knows and no one asks. She got pregnant and her husband left her, I don’t know the details. She said he didn’t want children. He wanted to devote his time to his career. So he left her.”

“Where’s the baby?” Matt asked with a sinking feeling.

“She moved back with her parents, had her baby as a single mother, and he died of SIDS at four months. That was almost a year ago. She’s just coming back to life.”

Matt thought he might throw up. “God.”

“She’s doing well now, considering. But you can see why I didn’t want you to be your tomcat self around her.”

“For the last time, I’m not a tomcat,” he said.

But he was. And he was damn lucky he hadn’t offended Ginger for the second time because he found her very attractive. Very desirable.

But now, knowing what he knew, he was going to get out of town and get back to Portland tomorrow. He’d make some excuse. He wasn’t staying the weekend, after all.

Three

Grace walked around the great room of the new house. It was freshly painted. She hoped her mother would approve of the colors she’d chosen—ivory with dark brown accents in the great room. Taupe with just a touch of mauve in it, dark accents, ivory ceiling in the master bedroom. It was restful, she thought. On Monday they would install the kitchen cupboards and light fixtures and continue work on the shower in the master bath. The thing she thought was the smartest and most practical—a curved glass cinder block wall rather than a shower door for accessibility and also for the elegant design—that was taking the longest. Workers had spent days on that one small project.

Troy was taking advantage of a warm sunny Saturday with only a light breeze rather than strong winds off the Pacific to seal the deck and steps to the beach. The sealer dried so quickly he was already on the second coat and it was early in the afternoon. Sealer had been sprayed on the underside of the deck before Troy brushed on the topside. Spencer, their next-door neighbor and Troy’s colleague at the high school, was at work on the steps—fourteen from the deck to the lower level, fourteen from the lower level to the beach. The main level of the houses was thirty feet above the beach.

She found herself standing just inside the great room doors watching Troy. His jeans were ripped at the knees and he wore a T-shirt with the sleeves torn off, exposing those biceps and forearms she loved so much. The jeans fit perfectly on his booty. He wore a cap to cut down on the glare, but he yanked it off regularly to wipe the sweat from his brow. He was just as sexy sweaty as he was all primped up.

He caught her staring and shot her that dazzling smile of his. “What are you looking at, little mama?”

“Dinner, I think.” And then she bit her lip.

There would be enough to do to keep them busy for quite a while, but she thought she could get her mother in the house in two weeks. And she suspected that her former skating coach, Mikhail, would be staying with them for some time. He had said, “I will come to this place if you could secure a little room in a cheap hotel. Just a bed is all I need—I despise to sleep on the floor. Someone should help get her settled. Winnie can be difficult. Then I will leave.”

Difficult? She could be a nightmare! But Winnie was ill now, losing her physical stamina, failing as ALS took over and the fatigue she suffered from made her more docile. It was true she had always listened to Mikhail. And Mikhail had said he was coming for two or three days and he’d been there over a month already. She’d better get that second upstairs bedroom and bath finished for him. She had a feeling Mikhail planned to stay much longer than he let on. There was an affection between Mikhail and Winnie that Grace couldn’t really identify. Not romance, certainly. Friendship, but more than the usual friendship. Partnership. Mikhail had been Grace’s coach for years, from the time she was fourteen until she was in her early twenties and quit competing, and through all that time he had stayed close to both Grace and Winnie.

Virginia, Winnie’s assistant, would stay in her position until that big albatross of a house in San Francisco was closed and all the possessions were dealt with. There were a few pictures Grace wanted for this house, but the rest of her mother’s art was going to a fine-art museum on long-term loan—it would be displayed as The Banks Collection. With the help of the now part-time housekeeper, some things were being packed and shipped to Thunder Point—just a few treasured pieces of furniture, some dishes, kitchenware, her mother’s precious bedroom rug, a valuable Aubusson. Then there would be an estate sale—the furs and most of the jewelry would be included. Grace would have to make a couple of quick trips to look through things—there were undoubtedly photo albums, books, mementos and keepsakes that should be preserved.

Virginia was looking for a roomy flat in the city where she could live and work until the estate was settled. Then Grace just might ask her if she wanted to continue to manage the estate after Winnie was gone.

Meanwhile, that handsome history teacher on the deck was trying to get a binding pre-nup. He wasn’t looking for half, he was looking for nothing. He never wanted it even suggested that he was interested in Grace’s legacy. That would be the money she would inherit because as of now she had a flower shop and about a year’s income in the bank, cautiously invested. Troy had been intimidated by Winnie’s house and furnishings. If he ever saw the actual bottom line, the net worth, he might stroke out.

Oh, they were going to make interesting neighbors. A teacher and flower shop owner, now expecting. A diva with ALS who would probably sit on the deck in a wheelchair wearing furs and diamonds. Full-time nursing help. And a little Russian coach who liked raisins in his wodka.

“Troy!” she called. “I think I’m going to do a little painting in the loft.”

He straightened and pulled off his cap. “You paint nothing! There are fumes. You can sweep. Or go arrange flowers. Or call your mother and tell her how helpful I am.”

“She already likes you more than she likes me,” she muttered.

“As it should be,” he said.

“Wow. Good ears!”

“I’m a high school teacher! I have to hear everything!” he shouted.

“And so do I,” Spencer yelled from the bottom step.