by Liz Talley
Daphne had been a quiet, studious girl with ginger pigtails that turned a soft auburn by the time she reached high school. Her freckles faded, her flat chest blossomed into something boys noted as they passed her in the hall, and when she got contacts to replace the thick-lens glasses she’d worn, she’d turned into something of a beauty. Rex noticed. Rex pursued. Rex got the prize.
Even after they’d been married, Rex continued to shine. His parents helped finance the AC-repair business and paid for Rex to get a business degree at LSU Shreveport. Her ex-husband had been a pro at glad-handing local businessmen. He’d joined the Rotary Club, the boards of several nonprofits, and donated to political campaigns to ensure Pinnacle Heating and Air was always in the running for city contracts. When Rex was around, Daphne felt like his shadow . . . or maybe like the person he expected to stand beside him, smile pretty, and hand him a tissue from her purse when being in the spotlight strained him overmuch.
That’s why their marriage hadn’t worked any longer.
Because Daphne had stepped out of the dark into the light. And Rex hadn’t taken it well. Not only had he not taken it well, he’d turned her success back on her. Like everything was her fault. Like she should tell Little Red Barn Books “Thanks, but no thanks” because her husband’s fragile ego couldn’t handle being second fiddle for one single minute. Didn’t matter that her secret dream of writing books had come true. Didn’t matter that he’d been the one who’d walked away from her.
Daphne opened her eyes and looked at the message on her screen. She typed back. Okay. Cocktails at 5:00 p.m. Dinner at 7:30. Tomorrow tour of vineyard then barbecue birthday celebration at Round Rock Room at 8:00.
She could deal with Rex. After all, she’d been dealing with him her entire life, and though the divorce papers declared them over, the man would always be in her life.
Because of Ellery.
That’s why she’d done most everything she’d ever done. But, of course, her willingness to sacrifice was part of Daphne’s problem. This entire weekend proved that much. When faced with a tearful Ellery weeks ago, Daphne should have given her a hug, chucked her on the chin, and told her to stiffen her upper lip. But no. Instead Daphne had done what she’d always done—put aside her needs to make Ellery happy.
Because that’s what she and Rex had always done.
Daphne sank into one of the heavy rockers on the private back patio of her room. Sommelier House had an old-Texas feel with rustic wood floors pinned down by antique furniture. The overall feel should have been hodgepodge, but instead it felt authentic and weighty, as if the architect had intended visitors to feel as if they were returning to a family home rather than a bed and breakfast. Daphne liked the vibe.
An hour later Daphne emerged from her room, wearing a sweater tunic, leggings, and some cute flats she’d bought at a trendy boutique, and headed for the dining area that overlooked the rows of vines stretching the property. For once, her waves had settled into something manageable, and the extra sleep had given her a nice glow. So far, so good.
The dining room had large dark-wood beams, three wagon-wheel chandeliers, and walls covered in white shiplap. Very Texas. When she arrived at the small table reserved for her breakfast, she found a vase with daisies and a vellum envelope containing a note scrawled in a masculine hand.
Daphne,
Glad to have you here. Looking forward to meeting you later today.
Evan
Daphne tucked her napkin in her lap and smiled at the waitress. “No coffee, but if you have grapefruit juice, I’ll have a glass.”
The waitress, whose name was Debi, smiled and scrawled something on her pad. “We actually do.”
“Oh, good, and who is Evan?”
Debi blinked. “Evan? You mean Mr. McCallum? The owner?”
“Oh yes. Of course. Evan McCallum.” Daphne folded the note and shoved it into her bag. Obviously, Sommelier House was big on hospitality if the owner took the time to welcome each guest. Such a nice touch that added to the charm of the East Texas vineyard.
“Are you ready?”
Sounded like Debi’s question was about more than ordering breakfast. Was Daphne ready? After all, this weekend would demand the delicate balancing act she seemed to always have to do with Ellery, not to mention her ex-husband was coming to no doubt undermine her every word, and then there was Josh, who’d already delivered a text about how he could stay for only one night and wouldn’t be available for social niceties since he had a test in some kind of “ology” the following week. Irritation at the man her daughter was engaged to reared its head. “I suppose I should be.”
“No, you should take the time you need. Everything on the menu is delicious.”
Daphne smiled. “I’ll take the eggs Benedict with the homemade biscuits and local honey. I’ll probably need to run a few miles afterward.”
Debi laughed. “But it will be worth it.”
“I bet,” Daphne said. She pulled her napkin into her lap and tapped through her email messages on her phone. She had several from writing friends, which was always a comfort. Writing and illustrating was a solo endeavor, and she appreciated her online groups of other authors who gave her advice, support, and a kick in the pants when she needed it. Her new publicist had sent a few interviews. She forwarded those to Ellery for her to sort on Monday. Her agent had an offer from a foreign publisher for Turkish rights. Daphne smiled at the thought of children all over the world enjoying her high-strung, friendly poodle and her serious sidekick labradoodle cousin Mahalia. Some days she couldn’t believe she was an author. No, every day she was in awe of the blessings that had come her way.
“Here you go,” Debi said, setting down a chilled glass of juice, a plate of fluffy biscuits with a cute jar of honey, and the breakfast Daphne had ordered. “Oh, and Mr. McCallum thought you might appreciate these. I forgot to change them out earlier.”
Debi switched the daisies out with a vase of gorgeous ruffled lavender peonies.
“Oh my, how beautiful. Peonies are my favorite.” Daphne smiled at the waitress. “I wonder how he knew.”
“His daughter is a great fan of your books. I know because she totes them around and reads them to our chef. The child’s not supposed to go into the kitchens, but José gives her ice cream, so what are you going to do? We listen to Dixie’s adventures and laugh at Sir Ruffles trying to always be so tough. He’s a crazy dog.”
Daphne’s heart warmed at the thought of the owner’s daughter loving her books enough to read to the kitchen staff. “Thank you. I love writing about those silly dogs. I’ll have to meet his daughter. What’s her name?”
“Poppy. She’s pretty adorable. I know she’ll love meeting you.”
“How did you know who I was?” Daphne asked. Most people didn’t connect the simple Daphne Witt with the overly adorned, fussy Dee Dee O’Hara.
The waitress shrugged. “I’m not sure, but Mr. McCallum is the kind of person who always knows the details.”
Daphne smiled and then looked down at her breakfast. “Attention to details makes a difference.”
“Enjoy your breakfast.”
Daphne did. The eggs Benedict was well executed, the biscuits light and fluffy, and the grapefruit juice the perfect accompanying tang. She wiped her mouth and pushed back her chair, rising to find Clay Caldwell striding toward her.
What the . . . ?
Her immediate reaction was to hide. Her second one was concern. Had something happened to her house? There was no other explanation for Clay walking toward her, his face apprehensive. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
“What is it?” Daphne said, grabbing her clutch purse from the table, trying not to panic.
Clay stopped and looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“The house . . . is there a problem with the house?”
“Naw, nothing’s wrong with the house. The guys finished the demo of the kitchen, and cabinets are going in tomorrow morning.” He nodded in what looked to be satisfac
tion.
“So why are you here?”
“Oh,” he said, looking like he was finally clueing in. “Uh, Ellery’s birthday thing’s tomorrow night. Madison invited a lot of the old gang to come for the party. I was going to drive over and back tomorrow, but I thought a little getaway would be nice. I’ve been working hard lately and—”
Now that she knew her house was okay, a new panic gripped her. Clay and Ellery weren’t close. Oh, sure, they still saw each other when Ellery and Josh went out for drinks or went to watch a football game at a friend’s house, but she knew Ellery still had issues with the boy who’d once wronged her, which made what Daphne had done with him ten times worse. “You shouldn’t have come, Clay.”
“Why not?”
Daphne glanced around to make sure no one could hear. “You know why not.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re not even friends with Ellery. You’re here because . . . I’m not sure why you would do this.”
“I told you. I wanted some time away.” He shrugged and averted his eyes.
She got a strange feeling. “Clay, what’s this really about?”
“It’s about you giving me a chance. It’s about you seeing me in a different light.”
“Seeing you in a different light? Clay, we’ve already had this conversation.”
“No, you told me what you thought I want, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think you’re wrong about us. When Madison told me what y’all were doing, I felt like it was an opportunity. I wanted to show you that I can be what you want.”
“Clay, there’s no us.”
“Because you’ve spent the past two weeks running from what we could have.”
“No, I’ve accepted that what happened was . . . a one and done. You and I just can’t do this. You said it was just sex. Remember?”
Clay contemplated her for a few seconds. “That’s what I thought. But I keep thinking about you, and I think you’ve been thinking about me, too. Only you’ve convinced yourself it won’t work because of what everyone else will say. Especially Ellery. But here’s the deal—why does Ellery get to have whatever she wants, but you have to live like a monk? And the whole age thing is so passé. Who cares?”
Daphne didn’t know how to make him understand that she wasn’t merely hiding from what others thought. She and Clay made no sense. At all. “Clay, you need to think about your future. I’m not your future. You need to date women your own age, girls who want to get married, have babies, and—”
“You’re assuming I want that. Who said I want a picket fence and a playpen of babies? All I want at present is to be with you. I’m asking for a chance, Daph.”
Daphne wanted to press her hand against his mouth, not just because she didn’t want anyone in the restaurant to know her business, but because she didn’t want to hear the words emerging from his mouth. “I don’t know what to say. I can’t even imagine us being . . . in a relationship.”
“Because I’m too young? Or you’re too scared?”
Both. Absolutely both. But she wasn’t going to admit to her fears.
“Go back to Shreveport, Clay,” she said, pushing by him, wondering how her one night of throwing caution to the wind had come back to smack her in the face. Who would have thought a twenty-five-year-old Lothario would want second helpings from a nearly forty-year-old woman?
The thought he’d come to Texas to win her was so ridiculous she wondered if someone was playing a joke on her.
If she could, she’d press rewind and refuse that third—or was it fourth?—glass of wine. Then again, if she were truthful, she would own up to that wine as only an excuse, a bit of liquid courage that allowed her to act on what she’d wanted for weeks. Something hot and needy had bloomed in her, twining itself around the need to feel something. She longed for the stroke of a hand on her hip, the delicious weight of a man pinning her to the bed. To say she needed to get off wasn’t wholly accurate. She’d wanted human connection, too.
But that didn’t mean she wanted a relationship with Clay.
The more important relationship with her daughter was already a tenuous spiderweb in a hurricane of blame, jealousy, and resentment. Oh, these emotions between them were ones she was aware of. What they engaged in was a push and pull of two women trying to find their footing in new lives. Daphne didn’t know how to remove what sat between her and Ellery, but she knew picking up what Clay Caldwell was laying down—no matter how spectacular he was in bed—wasn’t anything that could help.
“Hey, hey,” Clay said, catching her arm. “Stop just a minute, Daphne.”
She whirled. “What?”
“You can’t be the only person who decides.”
“Actually, I can. That’s how it works, Clay. When one person wants something, and the other doesn’t, it doesn’t happen.” Daphne uncurled his hand from her arm and held it tight. “You are a great guy—”
“But—”
“Whatever you envisioned happening this weekend isn’t going to.” Daphne walked away, hurrying through the arch that framed the opening to the restaurant. She didn’t have time to deal with Clay or the mistake she’d made with him, so she hoped her words were enough to drive him to climb back into his big pickup truck and head east.
Daphne was so flustered that she didn’t pay attention to where she was heading and ended up in the wrong wing of the bed and breakfast. Of course, she didn’t realize this until she’d reached the last bedroom at the end of the hall and discovered it was room number three and not room number six. She did an about-face and ran straight into someone standing behind her.
“Whoa, hey,” the man said, gripping her upper arms and steadying her.
Daphne brushed the hair out of her eyes and glanced up.
Whiskey. His eyes were the exact color of the nightcap Rex had poured himself each night. A mellow amber with marigold bursts, those eyes dared a person to get lost in their intoxicating depths. Or maybe she’d turned into too much of a writer and needed to rein in her need to embellish brown eyes.
“I’m sorry. Wrong way,” she said with a self-deprecating shrug.
“Daphne?”
She paused. “Yes?”
“It’s Evan,” he said, tapping a hand against his chest.
Evan. The owner of the vineyard. She’d seen a picture of him in one of the brochures that Madison had forwarded to her over a week ago. In the brochure, he wore a cowboy hat that covered his high forehead. He was taller than Rex, maybe six foot two or so. His hair was a thick reddish brown almost exactly the color of her own. Of course, she now got her color from a box, but she’d matched it to the shade her hair had always been. “Evan McCallum. Of course.”
She felt the full measure of the smile he delivered, and her first impression was utter warmth. “I’m so glad you’re here at the vineyard. What do you think so far?”
“Oh, it’s lovely. I haven’t been out to the actual vineyard or tasting room, of course, but I love my room.”
“Yes, the Jonquil Room’s the best. Nothing like hot tubbin’ in a vineyard, right?”
Daphne smiled. “I haven’t tried that yet, either, but I love how I feel like I’m in California. Or even Italy. If you look out the window, you can’t imagine you’re in Texas. Outside of the place having a friendly Texas feel.”
“I knew you’d like it,” he said, turning as if he would walk with her.
The hall was narrow, which meant his shoulder brushed hers occasionally as they walked toward the open area that held the registration desk, small bar, and opening to the restaurant. His overly familiar manner felt odd, but maybe that was part of the charm. Flowers, a personalized note, and treating guests as if they were long-lost family.
They emerged into the foyer, and Evan stopped, nodding at the young woman who worked the desk.
“Well, it was lovely to actually meet you,” Daphne said, extending a hand. “Oh, and the flowers this morning. My favorite. I have no idea how you found peonies, but wh
at a lovely touch.”
He chuckled. “Well, I’m trying my best to—”
“Daddy!” a little girl interrupted, slipping out from what looked to be the door of an office.
Daphne grinned at the redheaded little girl, who looked about six or seven. “This must be Poppy.”
Evan caught the hand of the little girl as she grabbed his and executed a perfect twirl. She crashed against his leg and looked up at Daphne with brilliant-blue eyes. “Hi.”
“Yep, this is my Poppy girl. Do you recognize this lady, Pop?”
The little girl narrowed her eyes, and then they widened. Finally, she squinched her eyes at Daphne. “Where’s your hat?”
“I didn’t wear it this weekend. No pearls or white gloves, either. Just me.”
“Where’s Dixie? And Mahalia?” the girl asked, her gaze roaming around the foyer. She looked concerned.
Daphne glanced up at the child’s father. His eyes laughed at her.
“Well, Dixie is home with my friend Tippy Lou. She’s working on a new case, you know. Someone stole Mr. Izuzu’s suitcase, and she and Mahalia are on the trail of the culprit.” Daphne touched one of the girl’s braids. “I admire your hair. You know, mine was the exact same color when I was a girl, and I had adorable freckles across my nose just like yours.”
Poppy grinned. “I don’t like my freckles. Have you read the book called Freckle Juice?”
Ah, this small child was a young bibliophile. “I have. That’s a big book for you.”
“My aunt Marin read it to me. She comes in and reads my bedtime stories for me. And makes sure I brush my teeth. My uncle Jared’s a dentist. I think he makes her check and stuff.”
Daphne smiled at Poppy’s father. The man looked at his little girl like a man truly in love. Daphne’s heart may have skipped a beat or two at that look. Rex had been much the same over Ellery. Everything Ellery said was adorable, even when she was sassy. “Well, your teeth are important. I brush Dixie’s, and she doesn’t like it, but she also likes to eat and sort of needs her pearly whites.”
