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I hope you’ve been following along with Grace Burrowes‘ new contemporary series, Sweetest Kisses. If so, you know what fun these books are. If not? Well, you’re definitely missing out, and you should catch up soon!

The Knightley brothers are sexy, honorable, and know how to treat their women – even before they become their women. And these heroines are perfect matches for the brothers – feisty, intelligent, and just as fun as the men are.

So take a few minutes to meet James and Vera. Then be sure to pick up a copy of their story, and make sure you get the other two books while you’re at it. What a great reading session that will be!

Summary:

Classical pianist Vera Waltham is recovering from a bad break up by taking a hiatus with her daughter in the Damson Valley countryside. She’s content with her music, and has no interest in complicating her life with further attempts at romance.

Attorney James Knightley is a numbers guy who reads contractual fine print for lunch, and wants nothing to do with damsels, in distress or otherwise. Nobody is more surprised than James when he falls for Vera Waltham, and the only contract on James’s mind when it comes to Vera is holy matrimony.

A year in divorce purgatory had taught Vera Waltham two lessons.

First lesson: When her ex acted like an idiot, she was allowed to be angry—she was getting good at it, in fact.

Second lesson: Vera could rely, absolutely and without hesitation, on her attorney’s word. If Trent Knightley said somebody would soon be on her doorstep with a copy of the restraining order, that somebody was already headed her way.

Vera’s emergency automotive repair service was a shakier bet.

“Ma’am, if this is the number where you can be reached, we’ll call you back when we’ve located a mechanic in your immediate area.”

“In my immediate area, you’ll find cows, chickens, and the occasional fat groundhog. The truck is sitting in my garage.”

“Then this isn’t a roadside emergency?” The dispatcher clearly had raised small children, for she’d hit the balance between dismay and shaming smack on the nose.

“I’m stranded without wheels, nothing but open fields, bad weather, and my lawyer’s phone number to comfort me. Please get somebody out to fix that tire, ASAP.”

Vera was stranded in her own toasty kitchen, but what if Twy came home from school with a sore throat? Long walk to the urgent care in freezing temperatures, that’s what, because bucolic Damson County boasted no rural taxi service.

“We’ll do the best we can, ma’am. Please stay near your phone until a mechanic calls you back.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that.”

The line went dead, which meant the next step was locating the truck’s owner’s manual. Vera was still nose down in a description of something called the spare brace assembly when wheels crunched on the crushed gravel of her driveway.

An SUV pulled up at the foot of her steps, and a man in a sheepskin jacket and cowboy hat got out.

Could be a mechanic. He was broad-shouldered, he drove a motorhead’s sort of vehicle, and he wasn’t wearing gloves.

A pianist noticed hands. His were holding a signature Hartman and Whitney navy blue folder. When he rapped on Vera’s door, she undid all three dead bolts and opened it.

Not Trent Knightley, but a close resemblance suggested Vera beheld one of the brothers with whom he shared a law practice. Same blue, blue eyes; same lean, muscular height; same wavy hair, though this guy was blond rather than dark.

“Hello,” she said, opening the door wider. “You’re either from Hartman and Whitney, or you’re the best dressed truck mechanic I’ve ever seen.”

“James Knightley. Pleased to meet you.” He stepped over the threshold, removed his hat, and hung it on the brass coatrack. “Trent asked me to bring you a copy of a restraining order. He said it was urgent.”

“My thanks, Mr. Knightley.” Vera closed the door behind him and shot the dead bolts, then extended her hand in anticipation of gaining possession of a copy of the court order.

Instead, Vera’s hand was enveloped by a big male paw, one graced with calluses she would not have expected to find on a lawyer.

James Knightley had manners—also warm hands. When he’d tended to the civilities—firm grip, not out to prove anything—he passed her the blue folder.

Vera flipped it open, needing to see with her own eyes that he’d brought her the right court order.

“Was there a reason to get it certified?” she asked.

“The courthouse was on my way here. If you needed a certified copy, then nothing less would do.”

Consideration and an eye for details were delightful qualities in any man.

As were warm hands and a mellow baritone voice.

“May I offer you a cup of tea, some hot chocolate? It’s cold out, and this errand has brought you several miles from town.” Vera offered out of basic good manners, but also because anger eventually burned itself out, while a front tire on her only serviceable vehicle was still slashed, and the intricacies of the spare brace assembly thingie had yet to reveal themselves to her.

Then too, James Knightley had something of his brother’s reassuring air. Maybe lawyers took classes in how to be reassuring, the way a pianist took a master class in Brahms or Rachmaninoff.

As he unbuttoned his jacket, James glanced around at the foyer’s twelve-foot ceilings, the crown molding, the beveled glass in the windows on either side of the foyer. Vera had the sense he did this not with a mercenary eye—not pricing property in anticipation of litigation—but rather with the slow, thorough appraisal of the craftsman. Pine dowels in the cross beam, handmade stained glass insets for the oriel window—he inspected these, the way Vera had to stop and listen for a moment to any piano playing in any venue, however faintly.

“A cup of hot chocolate would hit the spot,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket. “Trent said you had a lovely old house, and he did not lie.”

That smile.

Good heavens, that smile. Trent Knightley was tall, dark, and handsome, a charming and very intelligent man whom Vera had happily flaunted in Donal’s face, but this James…

He left a subtly more masculine impression. Donal would hate him on sight.

James’s gaze held a warmth Trent’s had lacked, at least when aimed at Vera. His smile reached his eyes, eyes a peculiarly dark shade of blue fringed with long lashes.

Vera had no business admiring a man’s eyelashes, for the love of St. Peter. Or his hands, or his voice.

“To the kitchen, then,” she said, leading James through the music room and into the back of the house. “My favorite room in the house.”

“I’d guess this place predates the Civil War. Did you have a lot of work done?”

“I intend to raise my daughter here, so I had the house fitted out exactly as I wanted it.” Right down to the security system, which had done her absolutely no good earlier that very afternoon.

“I have a renovated farm house of my own. Every night when I tool up my driveway, and she’s sitting under the oaks waiting for me in all her drafty splendor, I am glad to call her mine.”

A poet lawyer, who composed odes to his farm house. Different, indeed.

“But we’re not so glad to pay the heating bills,” Vera said as they reached the kitchen. The room was blessedly cozy because of the pellet stove sitting in one corner of the fireplace.

“Good Lord, this must be original.” James ran a hand over the gray fieldstones of the hearth. “Five feet square at least, and these look like genuine buggy axles.”

He fingered the pot swings on either side of the enormous fireplace, then draped his coat over the back of a chair.

“I don’t know what they are,” Vera said. “An old Mennonite gentleman came to point and parge, and he ended up doing a great deal more than that. I love that fireplace, but I also love the exposed chestnut logs and the flagstone floor. This time of year, I wear two pairs of wool socks twenty-four-seven. Have a seat.”

James wandered around the kitchen a while longer, a man who apparently enjoyed touching things—the mantel, the cabinets, the marble counters, the drawer pulls of the antique breakfront that stored her mother’s china. He caressed wood and stone as if he’d coax secrets from Vera’s counters and chimney, while she wondered where he’d acquired his calluses.

“Whipped cream, Mr. Knightley?”

“Please, and a little nutmeg, if you have it.”

“A connoisseur.” And lo, lurking next to the oregano in Vera’s spice rack was a canister of nutmeg, probably leftover from holiday baking. A connoisseur would appreciate fresh, homemade cookies, so she got down her cookie tin and peered inside. “We’re in luck. My daughter has left us a few cookies.”

Half a batch of homemade chocolate-chip pecan turtles remained, and they’d be scrumptious with hot chocolate.

“Don’t bother putting them on a plate,” James said. “I can dip into the jar, same as any other civilian. How long have you lived here?”

He could probably finish the entire batch without gaining an ounce, too, and keep up the small talk the entire time.

Which was…charming? A lifetime spent in practice rooms and concert halls didn’t equip a woman with a ready ability to analyze men.

Sobering thought.

“I moved here with my daughter a little over a year ago,” Vera said, putting a plain white mug of whole milk into the microwave. “Twyla will get off the school bus in about fifteen minutes, and if I’m going to walk to the foot of the lane, I’d better not linger over my hot chocolate.”

A bit rude, offering the man a drink one minute and hustling him along the next. Anger could leave a woman that rattled, but Vera’s guest didn’t seem offended.

“Your lane has to be half a mile long, and it’s not quite thirty degrees out with a mighty brisk breeze. Are you sure you want to walk that distance?”

“I’m sure I do not,” she said, giving his hot chocolate a final stir. “But somebody has broken into my garage. Today, I don’t expect an eight-year-old to trudge that distance by herself.” Though Twyla did, on the days when her mother wasn’t feeling paranoid.

Angry, not paranoid. Rattled, anyway.

And mildly charmed.

Something in James’s expression changed, became more focused. “Your garage was broken into? You mentioned a mechanic.”

“One of my tires is flat. I’ve called the road service, but I’m off the beaten path, and finding somebody to put on the spare will take a while. I’m pretty sure I can figure it out. I’ve changed a tire or two.”

Half a lifetime ago, on a vintage Bug, while one of her brothers had alternately coached her and laughed uproariously.

Now would be a good time for a guy with broad shoulders and competent hands to tell her that tires went flat for no reason all the time. Even brand-new tires that had cost a bundle to have put on and balanced.

When Vera had squirted whipped cream onto James’s hot chocolate, he appropriated the nutmeg from her and did the honors, then spun the lazy Susan that held her spices and added a dash of cinnamon.

They worked in the same assembly line fashion on Vera’s drink, the spices contributing a soothing note to the kitchen fragrances.

“Ladies first,” James said, saluting with his mug.

Because James looked like he’d wait all winter, Vera took a sip of her drink.

Rich, interesting, sweet, and nourishing—an altogether lovely concoction in the middle of a dreadful day. A small increment of Vera’s upset slid away, or at least from her immediate grasp.

“Your vehicle was vandalized while your car sat in a garage that I’ll presume you keep locked,” James said, staring at his mug. “You suspect your ex is behind this?”

Lawyers, even hot chocolate–swilling lawyers with interesting blue eyes, were good at putting together facts.

Right now, that was a helpful quality.

“I’m fairly certain my ex is carrying a grudge,” Vera said, “and fairly certain he stole my copy of the restraining order. Without it, if I call the cops, they might show up, but they won’t do anything if they find Donal here. If I can wave the order at them, they might lock him up.”

James helped himself to a paper towel and passed one to Vera, folding his up to use as a coaster on her butcher-block counter. He wasn’t shy about sharing personal space, and he smelled good—piney, outdoorsy, and—best of all—not like Donal.

“Domestic relations law hasn’t been my area for several years,” he said, “but I think you have the gist of it. If you like, I can reach Trent on his cell and verify that.”

“Please don’t. I already feel like a ninny for calling him. He’s newly married, isn’t he?”

“Very, and he chose well this time.”

James’s tone suggested the first Mrs. Knightley had not enjoyed her brother-in-law’s wholehearted approval, though her successor apparently did.

“I chose reasonably well the first time,” Vera said, “not so well on the rebound.”

“Whereas I have yet to choose. You make a mean hot chocolate, Mrs. Waltham.” He touched his mug to Vera’s, probably signaling an end to the self-disclosure session.

“Call me Vera, and have some cookies.”

He took a bite of cookie, catching the crumbs in his hand. “What time did you say the bus came?”

“Any minute. Why?”

He put a set of keys on the counter. “We can take my car.”

“That’s not necessary.” In truth, as charming as he was, as handsome as he was, the idea of getting into a vehicle with James left Vera uneasy. Donal was handsome and occasionally gruffly charming. He could also be a damned conniving snake with a bad temper.

“You take the car then.” James slid the keys toward her. “It’s colder than a well digger’s…boots out there, and I have a niece who’s seven—a pair of them, actually. This isn’t weather a lady should have to face alone at the end of a long day.”

Twyla bounced up the lane on colder days than this, and James had to know that—the Knightley family was local, after all. He’d passed Vera his keys for another reason, one having to do with her near panic at having no wheels, and ladies facing bad weather all on their own.

“I can put your spare on while you wait for the bus,” he said, while the keys sat three inches from Vera’s hand.

Until fifteen months ago, Vera had never lived on her own, ever. She’d given up leaning on a man, and so far, the results had been wonderful—when they weren’t scary.

“I can’t let you do that, James. It’s too much trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all to a guy who was tearing down engines from little up. I like the smell of axle grease, and I haven’t had homemade cookies since I don’t know when. Scat,” he said, taking her hand and slapping the keys into her palm. “If you leave now, you can have the seats nice and toasty by the time your daughter gets off the bus.”

He brought his mug to the sink and rinsed it out, leaving it in the drain rack. The line of his back was long and lean in the vest of what looked like a very expensive three-piece suit.

What was Vera doing, ogling the man’s back?

James Knightley washed his dishes, and for some reason, that reassured Vera he could be trusted to change a tire. Even so, she had to wonder what Trent Knightley had told his brother of her divorce. Attorney-client privilege was one thing, but James was both brother and law partner to Trent.

Men gossiped. Alexander had assured her they gossiped as much as women did, and Vera’s first husband had not lied to her…all that often.

“The garage is this way,” she said, leaving her hot chocolate unfinished. “You can take the cookies with you.”

“They’re good.” He took one more and set the tin back up on top of the fridge with the casual ease of a tall man. “Trent recalls your cookies fondly.”

Not a hint of innuendo in that line—not that innuendo would have been welcome.

“I’ll drop a batch off the next time I’m in town,” Vera said, turning on the garage lights. “Call it a wedding present. I think the temperature has fallen as the day has gone on.”

“We’re supposed to get a dump of snow later this week and—Vera Waltham, I am in love. You own a 1964 Ford Falcon, and this blue is probably the original paint color. My, my, my. Does she run?”

Cars and houses were female to James Knightley. Would he also consider pianos female?

“Not at the moment. The Faithful Falcon needs a battery, among other things, but some fine day, I want to see my daughter behind that wheel. The car belonged to Alexander’s grandmother, and he wanted Twyla to have it.”

James left off perusing the old car and scowled at Vera’s other vehicle, a late-model bright red Tundra, listing slightly.

“That’s why nobody wants to come change your tire.”

“What’s why?”

“These pickups have the spare up under the bed,” he said, opening the truck’s driver’s side door.

His movements and his voice were brisk, all male-in-anticipation-of-using-tools-and-getting-his-hands-dirty. “The mechanism for holding the spare in its brace always gets rusted, and to get the tire down, you have to thread this puppy here”—he rummaged under her backseat—“through a little doodad over the tag, and into a slot about”—he emerged holding the jack and a long metal rod—“the size of a pea, and then get it to work, despite the corrosion. I love me a sturdy truck, but the design of the spare brace assembly leaves something to be desired. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Like she’d heard no sweeter music that day than a man recounting the pleasures of intimate association with a truck? He cradled the jack assembly the way some violinists held their concert instruments.

“You reminded me of my oldest brother. I forget not all men are like Donal.”

Some men dropped their afternoon plans, took time to get a court order certified, minded their manners, and rinsed out their dishes. Some men changed tires without being asked. Vera would never be in love again—Olga had an entire lecture about the pitfalls of romantic attraction—but Vera could appreciate a nice guy when one came to her door.

“I couldn’t stop you from changing that tire if I tried, could I?”

“No. You could not. Trucks and I go way back, and I don’t like this Donal character very much.” James’s gold cuff links had gone into a pocket, and he was already turning back his sleeves. “Don’t you have a school bus to catch?”

He said it with a smile, with one of those charming, endearing smiles. Could he know that for Vera to even drive down the lane alone would take a bit of courage?

Fortunately, nobody embarked on a solo career at age seventeen without saving up some stores of courage.

“You’re right. I have a bus to catch,” Vera said. “You’re sure this is OK?”

“Shoo,” he replied, positioning the jack under the axle with his foot. “I may not be done by the time you get back, but I will put the hurt to the rest of those cookies before I go, if your daughter doesn’t beat me to it.”

Vera left him in her garage, cheerfully popping loose lug nuts. If she’d had to do that, she’d probably have been jumping up and down on the tire iron while calling on St. Jude, and still the blasted bolts would not have budged.

 

“My brother, my very own brother, an officer of the court admitted to practice law in the great State of Maryland, has lied to me,” James informed the Tundra as he rotated the rod that lowered the spare from its brace. “He led me to believe that Mrs. Waltham was a lonely old fussbudget whose Mr. Waltham was more annoying than dangerous.”

That last part might be true—annoying and cowardly.

The spare was properly inflated—praise be—and James rolled it around to lean against the driver’s side door.

“You’ve been slashed, my dear,” James said, eyeing the front tire. “I was hoping for a leaky valve or winter pothole wreaking predictable havoc. This is not good.”

Contrary to television drama, driving a knife into a truck tire—a new truck tire especially—took significant strength. Vera Waltham’s attribution of vandalism to her ex wasn’t as outlandish as James wanted it to be.

He raised the truck, wrestled the damaged tire off, and fitted the spare onto the axle.

“A real spare,” James observed, spinning the five lug nuts onto the bolts. “Not one of those sissy temporary tires, which any rutted country lane will reduce to ribbons before you can say, ‘Which way to the feed store?’”

Vera was isolated here, a single lady with a little girl, her house set back from the winding country road by a good half mile. Woods stood between the house and the road, assuring the property had privacy.

James liked his privacy too, liked it a lot, but sometimes privacy didn’t equate to safety.

“Trent also neglected to tell me his former client is a very attractive woman,” James groused to the truck. “She has good taste in vehicles, I might add.”

Vera Waltham stood about five foot six, and she packed a lot of curves into a frame substantially shorter than James’s own six feet and three inches. She had sable hair worn in a tidy bun at her nape, and big, dark eyes that revealed a deep brown upon close inspection.

“Nobody wears their hair in a bun anymore,” James said as he lowered the truck off the jack. “I like it—gives a lady a classic look, though a tidy bun wants undoing.”

James, unlike his brothers, was one to closely inspect the women in whose kitchens he found himself.

But then, Mac was a monk, and Trent was such a damned saint he was constitutionally incapable of noticing a client was pretty. James noticed, and occasionally did more than that.

At least until lately.

By the time James had re-stowed the equipment, voices came from the kitchen adjoining the garage.

A second pair of big brown eyes studied James as he crossed the kitchen to wash his hands at the double sink. These eyes were set in a heart-shaped little face and regarded him with frank curiosity.

“Is that the man who lent you his car?”

“Twy, say hello to Mr. Knightley,” Vera instructed. “And, yes, he was kind enough to lend me his car.”

“Hullo, Mr. Knightley. You look like the other Mr. Knightley. He was Mom’s lawyer. You ate some of my cookies.”

“I’ll eat every last one of your cookies, they’re so good,” James said, sliding onto the stool beside the child’s, same as he would have with either of his nieces. “I’m James. How was school?”

“School is boring,” she said, much as Grace or Merle might have. “You really look like my mom’s lawyer.”

“Trent’s my older brother, and I think he’s kind of handsome.” One should always be honest with the ladies. He reached for a cookie. “What do you think?”

The girl smiled, clearly understanding that James had set himself up to be complimented. “I think my mom said he’s a damned fine lawyer.”

“Language, Twy,” Vera murmured.

Was that a blush? Vera was making quite the production out of choosing a mug from the colorful assortment in the cupboard.

“Well, you did say it, Mom.”

“What kind of name is Twy?” James propped his chin on his fist, because of all things, Vera Waltham was shy. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a Twy before.”

“Short for Twyla. I’m the only Twyla in the whole school.”

“And you like that.” James liked this kid, too. “Always had lots of Jameses and Jims and Jimmys in my classes.”

“Was it horrible?”

“Bad enough.” Other parts of his upbringing had been horrible. “What’s your favorite subject?”

The child prattled on happily about her favorite, her least favorite, and some juvenile reprobate named Joey Hinlicky, who’d learned from his older brother how to snap the bras of the fifth-grade girls daring enough to sport such apparel.

Over at the stove, Vera stifled a snort of laughter, suggesting despite her bun and tidy kitchen, she might be the sort of woman who could be teased, or even tickled.

Or not. The house was spotless, a showplace, and the garage floor had been clean enough to eat off of. Other than the kitchen, which was inviting, the rest of the dwelling had a posed quality, like a movie set, not a home. The big black grand piano in the front room actually gleamed.

Did anybody ever play it? Such a fine instrument ought not to be simply for show.

“I can pick you up a battery for your Falcon,” James heard himself say around a mouthful of excellent cookie. “It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Vera replied.

She stirred something at the stove in such a manner that surely, her thank-you was about to turn into a no-thank-you.

“I’ve imposed on you enough, though. Twy, what’s in the homework notebook?”

“Vocabulary, fractions, and social studies.”

“Busy night,” James said. “You need any help?”

The child’s brow’s rose, while Vera’s stirring slowed. “No thanks, but thank you for offering. School isn’t hard for me, except for the boys.”

“Boys take a while, but they’ll grow on you eventually.”

“They blow the best arm farts.”

“That’s enough out of you, Twy,” Vera said, but she was again trying not to laugh. “If you’ve demolished your cookies, you can start on that homework, and do the fractions first.”

“Yes, Mother.” She swiped one last cookie and flounced out of the kitchen with the longsuffering air of a child who knows where the limits are.

“What a neat kid,” James said, helping himself to the last sip of Twyla’s milk. “Is school truly easy for her?”

“She skipped kindergarten, so she’s small for her grade, but, yes, it’s easy, except for the math.”

Homemade turtle cookies and milk had to be one of the best combinations ever.

“I never had any trouble with math. I’m a CPA, though I keep that under my hat.”

“A CPA and a lawyer?” She laid out two place mats on the butcher-block island where James had pulled up his barstool.

Flowers, pumpkins, and roosters in green, red, and orange.

“I don’t advertise the CPA part, as it hardly impresses the ladies, but it’s handy when the accountants start throwing around the tax code like it was handed down on Mt. Sinai. My clients are businesses or people setting up businesses.”

“A third brother is in practice with you, if I recall correctly?”

She’d set out napkins in the same autumn barnyard motif—Laura Ashley need not apply—and an orange pepper grinder, all on a weeknight for a kitchen meal with her only child.

“MacKenzie is the criminal defense expert,” James said. “Trent’s wife, Hannah, will soon handle all the alternative dispute resolution services for us, so her expertise will cut across disciplines.”

Vera next set a matching red salt shaker beside the pepper grinder. “My first husband was a lawyer, though he never sat for the bar exam.”

“The guy you chose well?”

She arranged silverware next, each utensil carefully lined up with the others. She’d loved the Husband Who Got Away, maybe still loved him, which had probably irked old Donal the Tire Slasher.

It might irk any guy lining up to provide post-divorce rebound services, too.

“Women divorcing second spouses often go back and revisit their first love,” James said. “It isn’t anything to worry about.” Nor was that something passed along in law school.

Vera snatched a third napkin from the center of the island.

“Alexander was killed by a drunk driver five years ago. I’m damned lucky he’d made a will, leaving everything to me, or we’d still be wrangling with probate.”

She turned the napkin into cloth origami, so it resembled a half-open rosebud. Vera Waltham had beautiful hands—also a broken heart.

“When you said you married Donal on the rebound, I concluded you were bouncing back from a divorce. I’m sorry.”

“And I didn’t correct you.” She shook out the rose and started folding again. “Don’t ever bury a spouse, Mr. Knightley. Divorce them all day long, provided you don’t have children with them, but don’t say that final good-bye.”

Mr. Knightley was James’s late father.

A moment later, a napkin-peacock sat in the middle of the island. Vera crossed to the cupboards, took down two crystal water glasses, and kept her back to James for a moment longer.

James liked women; they were interesting, dear, sweet, and lovely. Also fun to take to bed, but they could be complicated as well, which he did not enjoy. Nor did he enjoy being called Mr. Knightley by a pretty woman whose bun had slipped a tad off center.

“What makes you think your ex slashed your tire?”

“He left me a phone message. Not the first, and probably not the last.”

When Vera faced James, her expression was mildly pissed, an improvement over mooning after Saint Alexander.

“You recognized his voice?”

“It’s disguised, whispery, but, yes, it sounds like him. Would you like to stay for dinner?”

James was in the habit of accepting invitations from the ladies; he was not in the habit of accepting invitations to dinner. Vera’s house was too tidy, she was still entangled in a nasty divorce, was a client of his brother’s, and was pining for a man who’d been gone for years.

Nope, nope, nope.

“Dinner would be nice, provided you let me find you that battery.”

Vera regarded James curiously over the cloth peacock. “Negotiation is probably second nature to you, isn’t it?”

More of a survival skill, when both older brothers were attorneys. “Why would you say that?”

“You’re a corporate lawyer. You wheel and deal for a living.”

“I don’t think of it as wheeling and dealing,” he said, putting the cookies back on top of the fridge. “I think of it as collaborative problem solving. I want to hear Donal’s message, and you should consider reporting it to the authorities.”

“I’ll report it to the sheriff’s office, but they’ll just make one more note in my extensive file and wish I’d leave the county.”

No. They’d wish her ex would leave the county—as did James. “Let’s listen to the message before Twyla comes down to spy on us.”

Vera moved the cookie tin—more splashy, autumnal flowers—so it was dead center on top of the fridge. “Do you have younger sisters?”

“I have nieces. Not quite the same species, but in the same genus.”

Vera hit a few buttons on an old-fashioned answering machine on the counter, then stood staring at the little piece of equipment like it had eight legs and stank.

James prepared to listen to some sour grapes ranting from a spurned husband, though, Vera couldn’t have been married to the guy for long if she’d been in this house for more than a year, and dear Alexander had gone to his reward only five years ago.

“Don’t think I’ll forgive you, Vera,” said a raspy voice. “Don’t think you’re safe. Don’t think you’ll ever be safe.”

Not very original, but the hair on the back of James’s neck stood up. “Play it again.”

She did, twice, while James tried to absorb not only the words, but also the emotions. That voice, and that threat, whispering across this cheery, colorful kitchen were obscene.

“He leaves you frequent messages like that?”

“No. He lets me believe he’ll go away and abide by the protective order, and just when I think I’m about to put him and his miserable tricks behind me, he starts up again. I honestly never thought Donal would stoop to this level. He hates messiness and whining, and in its way, this is a lot of messy whining.”

James hoped that was all it was. “Can you trace the calls?”

“He knows my schedule, apparently, because he never calls when I’m home.”

James was beginning to sound like Mac with a witness in a criminal trial. “Do you get hang-up calls?”

She moved away from the answering machine and its malevolent little red number one on the message counter. “He’s cunning, Donal is. It’s part of what made him a good agent.”

“Agent for whom?”

“For me. How do you like your hamburgers?”

“Medium,” James said, stifling an urge to unplug that answering machine and toss it in the trash.

Vera set about making hamburgers, mashing a whole egg, some spices, salt and pepper, and a few bread crumbs into extra-lean ground beef, then using her hands to form the patties.

For a woman tormented by her ex, she was calm, but when she managed to meet James’s gaze, anger and exasperation lurked behind her basic cordiality. Her movements were quick, a touch brittle, and when Twyla had been with them, Vera had watched the girl a tad too closely.

Trenton Knightley, Esquire, needed to follow up with his client.

“I’ll make you two,” she said. “Unless you’re a three-burger man?”

“Two will be plenty. What can I do to help?” Help—with dinner, only with dinner, because the trouble Vera faced was best handled by cops and court orders.

“Can you make mashed potatoes?”

“I’m a bachelor. If I didn’t learn to cook, I’d soon lose my boyish figure.” He foraged in the fridge for butter, sour cream, and ranch dressing. The potatoes, still in their skins, were boiling away on the stove.

He and Vera worked in companionable silence, she tending the meat while he drained the potatoes and used an old-fashioned masher on them until they were relatively smooth.

“What are you doing to those potatoes?”

“Old family recipe. I guarantee Twyla will love them. Are we going to heat some green beans?” Every farm boy knew that the bliss of burgers and mashed potatoes had to be balanced by the penance of some green vegetables.

“Green beans sound good, and I have a tossed salad in the fridge. Beans would be in the freezer.”

He found a pack, put them in a pot with some water, tossed in a bouillon cube, and started opening cupboards.

“What are you looking for?”

“Slivered almonds.”

She gave him a skeptical look, but produced nuts in a bag rolled up and sealed with a rubber band.

He couldn’t exactly ask her about the Ravens latest televised game, now could he? Beside, the Ravens had sucked goose farts on national television, and James was, to his surprise, out of practice with the predinner chit-chat.

“Does Donal have visitation with Twyla?” Really out of practice.

“He does not. I was adamant about that, and Trent backed me up. Stepfathers have no basis in law to assert a right to visitation, not yet.”

James turned down the heat under the beans. “I take it Donal lacks paternal inclinations.”

“He has children of his own, and he does love them, though he’s incapable of showing affection for them. They’re older than Twy, and he has his hands full with them. I try to keep in touch with the kids, but when there’s a restraining order, that’s tricky. I don’t want to send a mixed message to anybody. The buns are in the bread box.”

James wasn’t picking up a hint of a whiff of a frisson of a mixed message—unless the lack of a third place setting was significant.

Vera slid the cooked burgers into a bright red ceramic dish with a clear glass lid, then called up the stairs, “Twy! Dinner’s ready!”

Next she tended to that third place setting, arranging a place mat, cutlery complete with two forks, folded linen napkin, and crystal water goblet just so.

Was a woman neurotic if she used linen napkins to eat hamburgers in the kitchen with her kid?

But even as James considered the question, he mentally played back the message her ex had left her. Linen napkins and matching place mats could be a defense against feeling chronically victimized and objectified.

A lousy defense.

Twyla came down the stairs, her expression pleased.

“We never have company anymore. Is Mr. Knightley going to have dinner with us?”

“He is. Wash your hands, Twy, and think up some grace.”

“Company grace,” Twyla said, twirling around on one stocking foot. “I haven’t had to do a company grace forever. I’m good at it, though. If I have enough time, I can make it rhyme.”

As James pulled up a barstool and bowed his head on cue, he felt Twyla’s hand slipping into his. On his other side, Vera was holding her hand out to him, palm up.

“Mine are clean,” Twyla said. “Mom’s hands are always clean.”

A family ritual, then. James had almost forgotten such things existed. He took Vera’s hand, and to his surprise, her fingers gripped his; they didn’t merely rest in his hand.

A sincere family ritual, then.

“For what we are about to receive,” Twyla said, “we are grateful. I’m also grateful to have skipped a grade so I’m not in the same class as Joey Hinlicky. Amen. Are there nuts in the beans?”

“Almonds,” James said, putting half a spoonful on her plate. “Vera?”

“Please.” She served her daughter a hamburger, and James two. Twyla’s did not sport cheese.

“You don’t like cheese?” James asked the child. “It’s good for you.”

“I like cheese raw, not melted so it sticks to the bun and the meat both. These beans are good, but they taste different, and they crunch.”

“Textural variety,” James said. “Makes the meal almost as interesting as the company. Did you get your homework done?”

“Nah.”

The kid knew enough to put her napkin on her lap and keep her elbows off the table. She also didn’t talk with her mouth full. Were females born knowing these things?

“Fractions got you stumped?”

She pushed the green beans around with her fork. “I don’t get the common denominator thing. It’s complicated.”

“You just have to learn your way around them. Did you bring your math book home?”

“Too heavy,” Twyla said, taking a bite of mashed potatoes. “Man, these are good. We should have company more often, Mom.”

James did not gloat, but he did offer Vera another helping of mashed potatoes, because she’d taken about a teaspoon the first time around, and James would finish off the batch when she’d enjoyed a proper portion.

“They are good,” Vera said. “Can you write the recipe down?”

“You cook with recipes, then?”

“She does,” Twyla volunteered, “but Mom says you have to improvise sometimes too, like with the cookies.”

“I learned the cookie recipe thoroughly first,” Vera said. “And you will not be improvising your way past learning fractions, Twy. I can help you with them when we get the dishes done.”

“Or I can,” James said. “But then, I’m certified competent to do dishes as well. Who’s your math teacher, Twy?”

“Mrs. Corner. She’s old.”

“I think my niece has her for a few subjects too. My nieces.”

“Who are your nieces?”

“Grace Stark and Merle Knightley. They’re in second grade.”

“I know them,” Twyla said, pausing with a forkful of potatoes halfway to her mouth. “That’s so cool. Grace is really good at drawing horses, and Merle has horses.”

Vera shot him a “now you’ve done it” look as James put the rest of the mashed potatoes on his plate.

“I take it you like horses?” James plainly loved them, always had.

“I adore them, but I like all animals. Mom says we might get a cat, because the mice like our house a lot when it gets cold. She says when the cornfields come down, the mice think moving to the house is like going to Florida for the sunshine. What’s for dessert, Mom?”

“Fractions, and maybe a brownie.”

“Mom makes the best brownies. We have them with ice cream sometimes, but mostly I like them plain. I do not like fractions.”

“Fractions aren’t so bad,” James said between bites of very good potatoes, if he did say so himself. “You just have to show ’em who’s boss.”

“How will you do that when she brought only her worksheet home and not her math book?” Vera asked, repositioning the napkin-peacock in the middle of the table.

“Fractions and I go way back,” James said, swiping a neglected crust of bun from Vera’s plate. “Show me a work sheet, and I go to town.”

“Like you and axle grease?”

“Not quite that close a bond, but almost. You have a little piece of green bean…” He extended his pinkie finger to brush the offending morsel off Vera’s lip, but she flinched back.

Well, damn it to hell.

She used her napkin.

“You got it,” he said, determined not to make her feel self-conscious—her, too. “You want my green bean recipe too?”

“We do,” Twyla said. “You probably want our brownie recipe.”

“Then we’ll trade, but let’s not make your mom do the dishes.”

“We can all clean up,” Vera said, “and that way, Twy will get to her fractions that much sooner.”

“Can’t wait to get to those fractions,” James said over Twyla’s theatrical groan. They made short work of the dishes, though without the extra forks and table linen and all the trimmings, the job might have been done much sooner.

But then, James was bachelor, and a cold hamburger occasionally sounded like breakfast to him—lately.

“Come on, sport,” he said, running a hand over Twyla’s dark hair. “Let’s wrassle some fractions.”

She looked pleased at the prospect, which was inordinately flattering. James didn’t exactly have trouble inspiring females to spend time with him, but the lure had never been fractions.

“I get the part about inverting and multiplying,” Twyla said. “That’s easy. It’s finding a common denominator so you can add them that takes forever.”

James sat beside the child in the big warm kitchen, and walked her through the business of finding common denominators and reducing to a lowest common denominator. She caught on fairly quickly, though her attack was marked by impulsivity rather than a methodical approach.

“This is a slow and steady wins the race kind of thing,” he said to her. “Your teacher doesn’t want to just see you know the steps, she wants you to get the math right too.”

“It’s boring, but at least it’s done. Thank you, Mr. Knightley.”

“I think, seeing as we’ve conquered fractions together, you might call me James. With your mother’s permission?”

Vera had been wiping counters for the past ten minutes—they were the cleanest counters in the county by now.

“He who spares the mom the Battle of the Fractions can choose his own moniker. Who wants a brownie?”

They were good brownies, damned good, in fact, but James limited himself to one the same size as Twyla’s. “I do want the recipe.”

“I’ll write it down,” Twyla said.

“You need to pick out your clothes for tomorrow, pack your lunch, and get into your jammies,” Vera countered. “Then we can have some princess time. Say good night to Mr. Knightley.”

Twyla’s lower lip firmed as if she were preparing to stage a post-fractions rebellion, so James stuck out his hand.

“Pleased to have made your acquaintance, Miss Twyla. I never in my whole, entire, long, and illustrious-nearly-to-the-point-of-being-famous life met another Twyla, and I will never forget you.”

She grinned at him, mutiny forgotten. “Never?”

“Never one time,” he said, “and I would not lie to a lady.”

She shook his hand and scampered up the stairs, yelling good nights over her shoulder.

“A good kid, Vera. I hope you’re proud of her.”

“Very, but I’m also anxious. I’ll blink, and she’ll be a teenager.”

This prospect appeared to daunt Vera, while Donal the Slasher had merely pissed her off. Had her priorities straight, did Vera Waltham.

“Nobody likes teenagers,” James said, indulging a need to speak up for his younger self, “but I think they’re wonderful. They can mow grass, do laundry, keep an eye on the little ones, make dinner, run the vacuum cleaner, and work on engines. I can’t wait until my nieces are teenagers.”

“When they are, their parents will gladly hand them off to their favorite uncle James. Thank you for showing Twy the math, though. She and I do not operate on the same wavelength when it comes to schoolwork.”

“Parents and their offspring never do,” James said, considering a second brownie now that the kitchen was adults only. “If it weren’t for my brothers, I’d probably have flunked out of high school.”

No probably about it.

Vera worked the controls on some high-tech coffeemaker thing, her movements as efficient as a short-order cook’s.

“You’re a lawyer and an accountant. How could school have been hard for you?”

“I was a boy, that’s how.” A boy whose brothers had simply expected him to make good grades. They’d made good grades—how hard could it be?

“Time I was heading out,” James said, though he’d watched a few princess movies in the line of uncle duty. “You should get your tire repaired, or at least buy a functional spare. I can take care of that if you like, but for now, the damaged tire is sitting in the truck bed.”

“Thank you, James. I’ll get to it tomorrow.”

He’d known she’d refuse his help, but had felt compelled to offer anyway. “You’ll tell Trent about the messages Donal is leaving?”

“I don’t see what Trent can do,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning back against the counter. The coffeemaker gurgled and steamed behind her as a beguiling caramel aroma filled the kitchen.

“Trent can put the state’s attorney on notice, he can send a threatening letter to Donal’s lawyer, he can rattle swords like nobody’s business, and create a paper trail that will incriminate the daylights out of Donal when you do catch him violating the order. You should tell Trent.”

“If I don’t, you will?”

She remained braced against the counter, arms crossed, her expression carefully neutral. From upstairs, Twyla started bellowing the lyrics to “Can You Feel the Love Tonight.”

Vera turned to the coffeemaker, but James would have bet his best set of jumper cables she was smothering a smile.

“Wanting to keep a woman safe doesn’t make a man a bully, Vera Waltham. If you can’t see your way to calling Trent for yourself, do it for Twyla.”

She nodded, though James knew it was no guarantee she’d call Trent; but then, he hadn’t promised to keep his mouth shut either. He was about to yell a final good night up the stairs to Elton John’s latest competition when Vera half turned, her gaze straying to the window and to the darkness beyond.

And instead of “good night, thanks for a wonderful meal,” what came out of his mouth?

“I live two miles away.” He scrawled his house phone number on a notepad beside the phone. “That’s my number. We’re neighbors, Vera, and you owe me a brownie recipe, while I owe you a battery for your Ford.”

“You don’t owe me anything, and even a CPA lawyer needs his beauty sleep. Good night, James, and thanks for wrangling those fractions.”

Good night, James? Wrangling fractions? No, James did not want to become entangled with this lady, but neither would he accept a brush-off. A guy had standards to uphold. He’d made his signature mashed potatoes for her, after all, and tamed the dreaded, fire-breathing least common denominator.

“If you asked me to stay,” he said, as upstairs, Simba and Nala caterwauled their way toward a litter of lion cubs, “I would. You and Twyla are isolated here. It’s pitch dark out, there’s no moon tonight, and that fool man means to upset you.”

She tore off the page that had James’s phone number on it—a phone number he’d stopped giving out months ago.

“Of course, Donal’s out to rattle me. You think I don’t know that, James?”

“I think you don’t know what to do about it,” he said gently.

Vera affixed James’s phone number to the fridge with a rooster magnet. “I’ll call your brother tomorrow.”

Her promise relieved James more than it should have. “I’m your neighbor. Around here, that still means something. You can call me too.”

Except she wouldn’t, which was probably all that allowed him to make the offer.

 

Vera put the kettle on as James Knightley’s SUV rumbled off into the night—the coffee would have been for him, had he stayed. Olga had disparaging things to say about caffeine in anything more than moderation—Olga had disparaging things to say about much of life—so Vera got out the chamomile tea.

The phone rang as Vera turned the coffeemaker off.

Her first reaction was to stick her tongue out at the machine, but the caller ID assured her Donal wasn’t making a further nuisance of himself.

“Hello, Olga. I was just thinking of you.”

“You think of me,” came the accented reply—tink uff me, “but you do not call. You are a bad girl, my Vera, making a lonely old woman wait by the phone for you to call.”

A shameless old woman, also ferocious and endlessly dear. “I’m sorry. Twyla has just now finished her homework, and I did mean to call you.”

Soon, not tonight.

“Homework, bah. You should find a man to flirt with you and take you dancing.” The way Olga said “dancing” suggested even a 94-year-old veteran of four marriages might relish an occasional flirtation.

“We had company for dinner tonight. My lawyer’s brother brought me some paperwork and then joined us for hamburgers.”

A considering silence from the other end. Vera could picture the older woman having a sip of chocolate from a translucent porcelain service that probably cost as much as Vera’s useless security system.

“He’s nice,” Vera added, because Olga would not pry, but she’d wield a silence more effectively than some conductors wielded their batons.

“The nice ones are often overlooked,” Olga said. “What did the child think of him?”

Insightful question, which from Olga was to be expected. Olga Strausser was a living legend among classical musicians. As a girl, she’d been introduced to Rachmaninoff, whom she’d referred to forever after as, “that poor, dear man.” She’d taken tea with Serkin, and given a private four-hands impromptu recital with Rubinstein that was still talked about.

She’d traded licks with Eubie Blake, and known Brubeck as a young man, “before he could read music, much.”

Vera had been sixteen when she’d snagged a slot in one of Olga’s rare master classes, and so nervous she’d barely been able to eat for a week prior. Once the class had begun, Olga had become a fairy godmother to the music, the auditors had fallen away, the nerves had fallen away, and Vera had learned as she’d never learned before.

How to be present to nothing but the music.

How to listen and play.

How to make judgment calls as a piece unfolded, crafting the music as it wanted to be performed on that instrument, in that hall, on that day by the person Vera was on that occasion.

Olga had continued as a benign presence in Vera’s musical development, gently steering her toward her first international competitions, when the professors at the conservatory had suggested she wait another year, or two, or three.

“They are old men,” Olga had said. “They think if you don’t win, they lose. We know better. We know you are ready, and you can still gain experience worth gaining if you come in last. But you play what I tell you, the way I tell you, not what those old men have been teaching for the past fifty years.”

Vera had won, and won again.

Olga had steered Vera into Alexander’s hands as a manager.

“He’s a good man. Look how patient he is with the wife, and her such a child. He will pace your career, so you can still perform at one hundred, like me.”

About Donal MacKay, Olga had been mostly silent, but her distaste for Vera’s agent had come through.

“That Scot. To him, all is pennies and nickels and bright, shiny dimes. When did coin ever soothe the soul?”

Hot chocolate and cookies soothed the soul, and watching James tutor Twyla through the intricacies of third-grade math had also gratified some need Vera couldn’t describe to herself, much less to her friend.

“Twyla got on well with James,” Vera said, recovering the thread of the conversation. “He’s patient, he has a good sense of humor, and he’s bright.”

Brilliant, probably—a CPA and an attorney, for pity’s sake. Why hadn’t some equally brilliant lady lawyer snatched him up?

“Children know whom they can trust,” Olga observed. “When will you bring my Twyla to visit?”

“Not this week,” Vera said, pouring the boiling water into her mug. “We’re supposed to get snow by the weekend.” Thank heavens, because Olga would expect Vera to play for her, and that she could not do—yet.

“You have that great, noisy beast of a truck,” Olga scoffed. “In Russia, we had mountains of snow, and managed it with mere horses and a nip of vodka. You must not be afraid, Vera. You can no longer play like a young girl, and that’s good. The music will sort itself out.”

Vera took a sip of tea and scalded her tongue.

“I’m practicing.” Practicing hour after hour, with a single-minded concentration she’d not had as a younger musician.

“Better that you invite that young man over for more than hamburgers. Play him the Chopin. If he can listen to Chopin, that will tell you much.”

“You have a naughty mind, Olga. Twyla is summoning me to Pride Rock.”

“Pride, something you could use more of. Sweet dreams, my Vera, and come see me.”

Click.

Olga was a force of nature, but a mostly a kind one. She’d made her points—stop hiding, book more concerts, dip a toe in the waters of flirtation and frolic—then retreated with a verbal hug and encouraging wink.

The idea of playing Chopin for James had an intriguing appeal. He’d looked sexy, patiently explaining one simple concept after another to the child, until an entire process had been made clear.

His patience, his generosity, his kindness to somebody else’s little girl, they’d been sexy.

Not his smile, his broad shoulders, or his big, competent hands—those had been a little unnerving.

But his kindness; that had been sexy. Vera added a dash of honey to her tea and ventured another sip, the temperature now perfect for a chilly night.

She hadn’t found anybody or anything sexy in years, but James Knightley in her kitchen with a pencil behind his ear…

Interesting.

 

“How’s my niece?”

“She’s asleep,” Trent said into the phone. James had known Trent left the office to heed a summons from the school nurse so Trent should have expected this call. “We hit the urgent care on the way home from school, and she’s on antibiotics. Grace brought home all Merle’s homework, and life is good.”

Trent had just finished giving the same report to Mac. Hannah’s parents would probably call next.

“Grace holding up OK?” James asked.

“She had a similar bug a couple of weeks ago, so I expect she’s safe for now. You got that order to Vera Waltham?”

“I did,” James said, his reply holding a touch of evasion only a brother would have sensed.

“But?”

A pause, and Trent could hear James rearranging word choices, polishing the facts to a higher shine—preparing his proffer for the court.

“I ended up staying for dinner.”

“It’s a nice old house.” Owned by a lovely, and possibly lonely, woman. James liked old houses. He liked women between the ages of five minutes and ninety-five years too. “I suppose you met the daughter?”

“Twyla. A neat kid, and she knows Grace and Merle. She’d be a good candidate for a playdate.”

“Three little girls in my house? If anything happens to me or Hannah, you and Mac are named co-guardians in our will, by the way. Be mindful of what you sew, little brother.”

Trent had meant the words in jest, but they reaped a small silence.

“You really mean that? We get the girls if anything happens to you?”

“Who else would we entrust them to? Hannah’s folks are not young, and she has no siblings.”

“I just… I mean… Thanks.”

A double load of responsibility and expense, and James said thanks.

“You’re welcome. I’ll tell Merle you did a wellness check.”

“Ah, Trent?”

“Hm?”

“Vera Waltham is having trouble with her ex.”

Wasn’t that what exes were for? “She told you this? In my experience, she’s jealous of her privacy.”

“She apparently let you into her kitchen.”

“But only into her kitchen,” Trent said. “Unlike you, the sight of me doesn’t make most women’s clothes fall off, with the happy exception of my wife. What sort of trouble is Vera having?”

“He’s leaving her threatening messages, but is clever enough to disguise his voice and make the threats vague. Somebody slashed the tire of her truck while it sat in a locked garage, and she suspects him.”

Why was Veracity Waltham confiding these things in James rather than telling them to the attorney who’d spent a long, hard year battling on her behalf?

“I can’t do anything about it until she tells me to, James.”

“She said she’d call you tomorrow, but if she doesn’t call you, I might nose around, see what I can find.”

Like most younger siblings, James was a first-class noser-arounder, second only to the private investigators the firm kept on retainer.

“You’re not her lawyer,” Trent said, not sure if he was being protective of Vera or of James. The guy had a soft spot for damsels in distress, and all the swashbuckling and mighty swordsmanship in the world didn’t disguise that from his own brother.

“I’m not her lawyer, which means I can discreetly discuss her business with my brother, and I can drive past her place on my way to and from work, and I can get a damned battery for her 1964 Ford Falcon.”

“Her what?”

“Never mind. Tell Merle to get well soon, and give Hannah my love.”

James hung up before Trent could ask what he’d thought of that lovely old house—or if, in his raptures over an antique car, he’d even noticed the house.