A Family At Last by Jacqueline Diamond

Author:Jacqueline Diamond
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2013-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Chris hadn’t expected to spot the Lowells at an outside table facing the Green. Although he appreciated the pleasures of a spring day and the sight of children frolicking in the playground, their prominent position hardly accorded with Karen’s desire for secrecy.

Well, in this town, a secret lasted about as long as fresh fish and smelled worse, his father used to say. Maybe it was better not to try to hide.

Striding toward them, Chris enjoyed the splash of color from Karen’s poppy-colored blouse and the auburn highlights in her hair. Beside her, Renée had faded from the vibrant brunette she used to be, her hair grayer and her forehead and mouth traced by lines. Nevertheless, she regarded him with the same alertness and intelligence he recalled from when she used to help Barry and him with school projects.

He was glad she didn’t share Barry’s antipathy. Or perhaps she was simply willing to consort with the devil if it might help her son.

“Hi.” He sat down facing them. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Thanks for coming,” Renée answered, as straightforward as always. “It’s time we buried the hatchet.”

“I’m afraid Barry would like to bury it in my back,” Chris said wryly.

Karen’s face scrunched. He couldn’t tell whether she was reacting to his remark or squinting into the sunlight.

“By the time he gets back to town, I’m hoping we’ll have some good news for him. That ought to smooth his feathers.” Renée opened her menu.

Taking the hint, Chris scanned his own bill of fare. “What’s good here?”

“Everything,” the two women said in chorus.

“Right they are.” Gwen Martin, the proprietor, stopped beside their table.

A red-and-white checked apron and tendrils of steel-gray hair curling around her strong cheekbones only added to Gwen’s air of feminine confidence. Chris had never heard the whole story, but the restaurateur, now in her late fifties, was reputed to have lived in Paris when she was younger, and had had affairs with poets and artists. A pastry chef, she’d returned to Downhome when she inherited this small piece of real estate adjacent to the park.

Mae Anne had suggested he question Gwen about Jeremiah Cornish. He didn’t want to be too obvious about it, though, so he held off.

“We have delicious sandwiches. Also specials.” She indicated a chalkboard by the entrance. “I recommend the orange crepes.”

Chris scanned the board. “With raspberry-orange cream filling. Orange crepes it shall be.” Since the café’s ambience put him in a cavalier mood, he added, “Ma chérie, zat sounds heavenly.”

His attempt at a French accent wasn’t much to show for five years spent studying the language in high school and college. At least it brought smiles around the table.

Gwen regarded him with approval. “Only one other man in this town has ever called me ma chérie. I never found the courage—” she pronounced it coo-RAHJ “—to tell him that he was the love of my life. Not that it would have done any good. I could see he didn’t return the sentiment.”

“It is never too late for amour,” Chris responded, adopting the spirit of her declaration.

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