Sweet Tibby Mack

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Preview

Copyright

“My friends, our sweet Tibby is withering on the vine.”

“But Winnie…Ralph Hopple’s the only bachelor in Yaqui Springs,” Henrietta Feeney ventured timidly. “He’s sixty-five if he’s a day. Besides, do you think Tibby wants us meddling in that part of her life?”

Winnie Toliver leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Tibby mustn’t know. We have to find an acceptable single man between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-five and somehow entice him to settle in Yaqui Springs.”

“Who?” wailed Mabel. “And how?”

“Mabel, you sound like an owl,” Winnie snapped. “I didn’t say it would be easy. It will require a lot of thought and possibly some scouting. Let’s meet again one week from today. I’ll expect everyone to bring some workable suggestions.”

Mabel jumped to her feet and clapped. “Winnie, you’re right! I always said old age and treachery will win out over youth and skill any day!”

Dear Reader,

I was delighted to learn that Sweet Tibby Mack is the launch book for Superromance’s in-series promotion, MATCHMAKER, MATCHMAKER. In some parts of the world, the role of matchmaker is not taken lightly. Official matchmakers present the prospective groom’s offer to the bride’s family and negotiate the dowry. Here, it’s an informal role—usually entered into enthusiastically by well-meaning friends and family members.

Most women have experienced matchmaking, either aggressive or low-key. To many it’s a source of amusement, to others a situation abhorred. But for some it works. My own marriage is the result of my husband’s sister bringing me in as a decoy to break up a relationship he had with another woman. I’m not sure the matchmaker expected her efforts to end in anything as permanent as marriage, however.

But, alas, too often matchmaking doesn’t go as fondly planned. It’s almost always fraught with problems--and frequently backfires, as Tibby Mack’s friends discover when they endeavor to find her the perfect husband.

I hope you enjoy Tibby’s experience—and her matchmakers!

Roz

P.S. I love to hear from readers. Write to me at: P.O. Box 17480-101 Tucson, Arizona 85731

Sweet Tibby Mack

Roz Denny Fox

My heartfelt thanks to Gloriajean and Jim Boone for

recounting the joys—and less-than-joyous experiences—connected

with building a public golf course on private land.

May you have smoother sailing on the back nine.

For those readers not fluent in golf’s bewildering language,

I offer the information the

Boones so kindly gave me:

In golf, when it comes to score, less is best.

par: number of strokes set for a hole, depending on difficulty birdie: one stroke under par eagle: two strokes under par bogey: one stroke over par double bogey: two strokes over par irons and woods: two types of golf clubs

PROLOGUE

“I SUPPOSE YOU LADIES are wondering why I called this emergency meeting of the Moped Mavericks.” Winnie Toliver, the group’s president, was a born leader. Energy all but crackled around her short gray curls as she paced the width of the Yaqui Springs recreation center.

The others immediately quieted.

“I’m concerned about our sweet Tibby,” Winnie said, referring to the youngest resident living in their retirement community. Each woman present had had a hand in Tibby Mack’s early upbringing. A few days ago she’d turned twenty-six.

“Gracious, Tibby isn’t ill, is she?” asked Mabel Sparks, a retired teacher who had scheduled Tibby’s home schooling from age ten through eighteen.

Yaqui Springs sat on the west bank of the Salton Sea in California’s Imperial Valley. Since it comprised mainly retired citizens, the county saw no need to provide transportation to elementary or secondary schools. Outside of Tibby, the youngest person in the loosely formed community was fifty-six.

“Tibby’s not sick,” Winnie assured the others quickly, halting the murmurs of sympathy that threatened to disrupt the meeting. “Since her grandmother passed on, rest Lara’s soul, Tibby’s scarcely stopped running. Each week the child takes on more chores.”

Ariel Pulaski patted her new perm. “You aren’t suggesting she close the beauty shop, are you? It’s so handy.”

“I know our men would hate to lose the coffee bar.” Rosamond Gordon, a former concert pianist, frowned. “And we’ve come to depend on the post office. You aren’t suggesting she give that up after Lara worked so hard to establish one for us?”

“Ladies, ladies, don’t get me wrong. I love all the services Tibby provides. Mack’s General Store has never been so well stocked. And who among us doesn’t appreciate the organic fruits and veggies that sweet girl grows? With more people moving here each year, Tibby’s newsletter is a blessing, too. But I ask you—what kind of social life does the poor girl have?”

“You’re right, Winnie,” chimed in Justine Banks. “Tibby hasn’t attended one of my watercolor classes this year. Claims she’s too busy.”

“Justine, I’m talking social life as in dating. As in getting married and having babies for us to spoil. My friends, our sweet Tibby is withering on the vine.”

“But Winnie…Ralph Hopple’s the only bachelor in Yaqui Springs,” Henrietta Feeny ventured timidly. “He’s sixty-five if he’s a day. Besides, do you think Tibby will want us meddling in that part of her life?”

Winnie leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Tibby mustn’t know. We have to find an acceptable single man between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-five and somehow entice him to settle in Yaqui Springs.”

“Who?” wailed Mabel. “And how?”

“Mabel, you sound like an owl,” Winnie snapped. “I didn’t say it would be easy. It will require a lot of thought and possibly some scouting. Let’s meet again one week from today. I’ll expect everyone to bring workable suggestions.”

Rosamond waved her hand. “Couldn’t Joe and the others take her golfing more often over to Bogey Wells? I hear the resort hired a new golf pro.”

“Yes!” Winnie clapped her hands to cut through the excitement that had erupted. “Joe plays there daily, as do Pete, George and Fred,” she said, speaking of their mates. “We’ll check out the new pro. Although he’s fortysomething, I think.”

“My dentist is younger,” piped up Henrietta. “Thirty-eight. Maybe he’d like to move his practice out here from Indio. He’s talked about slowing down.”

“See.” Winnie beamed. “Already we have prospects. One week from today we’ll meet here and study our options.”

“LADIES, COULD WE HAVE quiet, please? We’ve got a lot to discuss. I realize our one week ran into three, what with Yale O’Donnell’s funeral and all. If we hadn’t stepped in, the poor man wouldn’t have had a decent burial. His daughter-in-law only showed up to try and get her mitts on his fortune. I’m glad he just left her a token amount.”

Ariel snorted. “He left the bulk to his grandson. If you ask me, Cole’s no better than his mama. She, at least, attended the funeral.”

Winnie shushed the women, who’d begun to chatter among themselves. “Cole is out of the country. You know he designs resort golf courses. After Henrietta and Justine give us their reports, I’ll tell you what else I dug up on Cole O’Donnell.”

Teased by the promise of juicy gossip, Henrietta stood. “I made a special trip to my dentist. Tibby drove me. Scratch him from our list. On the way home I pumped her to see what she thought of him. You know how Tibby never says anything bad about a person?” Henrietta paused. “She said he was stodgy.”

“She’s Lara’s granddaughter all right.” Mabel smiled. “Tibby was twelve when she asked me what stodgy meant. It’s how Lara described Ralph Hopple.”

Justine exchanged places with Henrietta. “We’re in trouble, ladies. There’s only one bachelor registered at the resort in Bogey Wells. A forty-year-old bird-watcher from Connecticut. If there’s a term meaning beyond stodgy, he’s it. And forget their golf pro. Winnie and I agree he’s nothing but a Don Juan.”

“Oh, no.” Rosamond wrung her hands. “I have worse news. I saw Tibby poring over brochures for a nutritionist’s program they offer at San Diego State. You don’t suppose she’s thinking of leaving Yaqui Springs?”

“Wait” Winnie silenced the twitters. “Don’t you want to hear the rest of my news?” Her blue eyes sparkled as she produced a creased golf magazine from her back pocket. Quickly she thumbed it open to a dog-eared page and made a circuit of the group so all could see.

“He’s a dish,” someone murmured.

“A dreamboat. Who is he?” demanded another.

Winnie fairly smirked. “Don’t you recognize him? This, ladies, is a grown-up Cole O’Donnell.” Once all the whistles and you’re kidding’s tapered off, Winnie let the silence drag out until she had everyone’s attention. “According to the article he’s still single. If I remember correctly, he must be just over thirty.”

“I see it says he lives in Hollywood,” interjected Justine, who’d grabbed the magazine. “He’s not…funny, is he—well, you know what I mean?”

A ring of anxious faces turned to Winnie. “No. In the fine print it alludes to one of his aims being to start a family someday. Now, hush and let me get to the good part. You know how Joe and the others fuss, having to drive to Bogey Wells every day to play golf?” Seeing all the nods, she continued, “Last night at dinner, out of the blue Joe says, ‘It’s too bad young Cole O’Donnell doesn’t come to Yaqui Springs and build a golf course on all that land Yale left him.’“ Winnie paused to let that sink in. “Well, I said, calm as you please, ‘You’re head of our recreational-development committee, Joseph. Get up a petition on behalf of the residents’ association and send it to Cole.’”

Mabel jumped to her feet and clapped. “Winnie, you’re a genius! I always said old age and treachery will win over youth and skill any day. As I recall, our Tibby used to be quite smitten with that boy. Let’s all go sign Joe’s petition.”

“Tibby may have been enamored of Cole once, but ten years is a long time. Until we see how they get along, mum’s the word,” Winnie cautioned as the Moped matchmakers left the rec center.

CHAPTER ONE

TIBBY MACK smiled to herself as she loaded the last of the homemade baskets, each of them filled with bright spring blooms, into the back of her aged station wagon. She could almost feel her grandmother’s presence. Hanging May baskets on the front doorknobs of all the Yaqui Springs residents was a yearly event Lara Mack had lovingly observed. Though Gram had been gone nearly a year, Tibby knew that if the kindly old lady were ever to smile down from heaven, it would be on May Day.

Running late as usual, Tibby slammed the tailgate and hurried into the store to shed her gardening gloves. If no one caught her distributing baskets and stopped to chat, she might get back to open the store and coffee bar on time. Although she’d promised to feed Ariel Pulaski’s Afghan hounds for a few days, and they had to be worked in before she drove Mabel Sparks to the airport…

“Uh-oh. Looks like I didn’t move fast enough.” Clutching the Closed sign, Tibby tossed her thick braid over one shoulder as she watched a car leave the main highway and speed toward the general store. A racy sports car. She frowned. No one she knew drove anything remotely that upscale. Had it been a local, she would’ve given him a key, and trusted him to leave a list of what he took. As it was a stranger, she had no choice but to leave fast or chance letting the fragile blossoms wilt.

Flipping the sign to read Closed, she sprinted toward her vehicle.

The approaching stranger squealed his midnight blue Jaguar to a halt in front of Tibby and hopped out almost before the full-throated growl of the engine quit.

She froze, her breath trapped in her throat. The world tilted crazily. Not a stranger. Cole O’Donnell. Someone she’d steeled herself to see at Yale’s funeral—and then he hadn’t shown up. After she’d spent days foolishly worrying that she wouldn’t recognize him. Tibby would have known his thick acorn brown hair and beachboy tan at ten times the distance. But why was he here now? She automatically smoothed her wrinkled skirt and grappled for composure.

“Well, hel-lo,” he drawled, flashing a smile that warmed his gray eyes. “It’s a thirsty drive from the coast I’m dying for a cup of coffee.” He glanced expectantly from the still-swinging Closed sign to the woman’s lush goldenrod hair. “Things have changed in Yaqui Springs. I’d heard Mrs. Mack passed away. She ran the store as far back as I can remember. Are you the new owner?” Cole didn’t think the attractive blonde was the new owner’s wife. He noticed that her left hand was bare of rings.

Hurt that he didn’t recognize her, Tibby slipped on a pair of sunglasses. Yet it shouldn’t surprise her that he didn’t. Their last’meeting—the spring she’d finally found the courage to invite him to the Date Festival in Indio—he’d been an older man of almost twenty to her sixteen. Oh, he’d looked at her, but he hadn’t really seen her when he carelessly turned her down. It embarrassed her now to think how often she’d haunted his grandfather’s place, waiting for snippets of news about Cole. If Yale ever guessed what prompted her many visits, he’d never let on. That grand old gentleman had taught her bookkeeping skills, which allowed her to run the store during her grandmother’s long illness and after. He’d also taken her golfing to keep her spirits up.

Now Yale, too, was gone. A fact that didn’t seem to bother the man standing before her, flaunting his sexy, easy smile.

“You’re a little late for your grandfather’s funeral,” Tibby said coolly. “We buried him six weeks ago.”

The accusation cut through Cole like a hot knife. Anna, bless his mother’s callous soul, hadn’t seen fit to let him know. Until he’d returned from Italy to a backlog of mail, he’d remained unaware he’d lost the person he loved most in the world. At first he’d been too shaken to even deal with the inheritance. Then one day about a month ago he’d received a note from the Yaqui Springs recreational committee, along with a petition asking that he build a golf course on his grandfather’s land. His land now.

Owning his own golf course was Cole’s “someday” dream. Gramps had taught him to play the game and love it. What better tribute to the old man’s memory?

Who was this woman? Cole shaded his eyes against the sun. And if the set of her shoulders and the twist of her lips were any indication, she didn’t like him.

“Hey, wait,” he called as she climbed into a woodsided station wagon and prepared to leave. “Have we met?”

“Blue moons ago, whiz kid. I’m Tibby Mack.” Slamming her door, she pushed the key into the ignition and gave it a twist. Tibby thanked her lucky stars that for once the wagon started without a sputter. “I hate to run, but I’m delivering May baskets to the residents. Then I have Pulaski’s dogs to feed and Mabel Sparks to take to the airport. Afraid you’ll have to get your caffeine fix elsewhere.”

Tibby Mack. Lara Mack’s granddaughter? Cole’s jaw nearly hit the asphalt. That skinny kid who wore pigtails and had braces on her teeth? Maybe the moss green eyes were familiar, but now they appeared in a whole different package. He hadn’t seen her for—what?—at least ten years. The summer he’d been a college sophomore. Hot stuff. Nineteen going on thirty. His friends had spent their spring break in Palm Springs. Gramps had wanted him to come to Yaqui Springs—and after all, Yale had paid for his education. If memory served Cole, his vacation hadn’t turned out half-bad. He’d met an “older woman” of twenty-five. A tennis instructor working the resort at Bogey Wells. She’d greatly enhanced his education—and not just in tennis.

Cole stared after the disappearing car. “Well, whaddaya know.” Though he hadn’t been back since, he’d spent most previous summers in Yaqui Springs. He remembered the year Tibby Mack had come to live with her grandmother. The kid had looked so lost and forlorn. Because Cole understood loneliness, he’d taken her fishing and given her rides on his moped—until she’d gotten one of her own.

Cole checked his watch. The store sign said she opened at eight. Was business so good she could take off on a whim? Not by the look of the big empty parking lot. It was all pretty much as Cole remembered, except for a new building Gramps must’ve put up. Even that needed a coat of paint. If Tibby’s eye was on progress, it didn’t show. Maybe she’d become the type to flit around living off inherited money because it was her due—like his mother, he thought bitterly. Old news, Cole reminded himself. No longer affecting him. Nor did anything about Tibby affect him.

Cole jerked his thoughts back to the mission that had brought him here—Joe Toliver’s letter. It’d come at the right time. Tired of traveling, he’d been giving serious thought to settling down and starting a family of his own. He even had a lady in mind. Cicely Brock, an actress. They got along well. Plus, when the two of them walked into a room, men stepped all over their tongues. A guy could do a lot worse.

Cole wasn’t going to let one rude woman deter his plans. He’d survey his grandfather’s property, then visit the committee who’d asked him here. Those old boys just might have themselves a first-class golf course.

BY THE TIME Tibby had finished delivering her fiftieth May basket, she’d nearly ground the enamel off her molars. If one more person brought up Cole O’Donnell’s name, she thought she’d scream. First of all, she didn’t see how anyone could forgive him for skipping his grandfather’s funeral, let alone roll out a red carpet for the man.

“Yoo-hoo, Tibby!” Henrietta Feeny came out onto her porch to collect the May basket hanging from her doorknob. “Tibby dear, have you heard the news?”

“What news, Henrietta?” Tibby fidgeted on the bottom step. She was afraid she knew exactly what Henrietta would say.

“Yale’s grandson is back in town.”

“Do tell. Amazing how fast bad news travels,” Tibby muttered.

“Bad? But he’s so handsome, dear.” The plump woman preened a bit. “Why, if I were thirty years younger…”

“Yes? And what about Fred?” Tibby knew that Henrietta and Fred had been married forty years. They still walked hand in hand when they came into the store.

“Oh, you know what I mean.”

“No, Henrietta, I don’t. Am I the only one who cares that Cole didn’t show up to pay his respects to his grandfather?”

“He couldn’t help it. The dear boy’s been working out of the country. Tibby, you have dirt on your dress. Will you have time to change before you open the store?”

“Change?” Tibby blinked. Her mind stalled on the information about Cole. How on earth did Henrietta know where he’d been? Was there a full moon or something? Her friends were acting very strange. Absently Tibby scrubbed at the spots on her skirt. “It’s honest dirt, as Gram used to say. I’ll put on a smock at the store. No one’ll notice.”

“Tibby, about those smocks. They were all right for Lara. But they make you look…frumpy.”

“Frumpy? Thanks a lot, and happy May Day, Henrietta. I wish I could stay for more hot fashion tips, but I’ve got a very full schedule today.”

“You shouldn’t do so much, Tibby. I’ll take Mabel into Palm Springs and get her to the airport.”

Tibby had almost reached the street, but the remark gave her pause. Henrietta’s eyes were so bad she had trouble telling red peppers from green; she certainly couldn’t identify traffic lights. And she probably hadn’t driven in five years. Far-fetched though it sounded, Cole O’Donnell had apparently cast a spell on the women of Yaqui Springs. Some of the women, Tibby corrected. She saw through him.

“I’m not doing too much, Henrietta,” Tibby said more gently, worried that the woman might truly take it upon herself to drive Mabel to the airport. “Maybe you should go in out of the sun. Drink a cup of chamomile tea.” Tibby checked over her shoulder after starting her car. Was Henrietta exhibiting some form of mild dementia? Ginkgo encouraged blood circulation to the brain. She made a mental note to bring her friend a supply at the earliest opportunity.

Before Tibby finished delivering the remaining baskets, she decided half the town needed ginkgo. Either that, or she needed the spring tonic. Men and women alike bubbled excitedly over Cole’s sudden appearance.

Tibby drove past the O’Donnell house on her way back to the store. She craned her neck and saw Cole surveying the property. At the funeral, she recalled, his mother had mentioned that he’d inherited virtually everything. Tibby’s stomach tumbled. Was he planning to sell Yale’s place?

To whom? she wondered. Since his land bordered hers, any sale concerned Tibby. If only she could swing buying twenty or so acres. Yaqui Springs expanded every year—it’d be nice to have space between the store and any new dwellings. Except for the nearby bird sanctuary and the state park, the smattering of retirement communities dotting the shores of the Salton Sea were loosely zoned. A few oldtimers like her grandmother and Yale had built permanent homes; most others lived in mobiles or prefab homes that had sprung up willy-nilly.

Tibby parked and got out. She didn’t understand how Cole could sell and never lay eyes on Yaqui Springs again. Everything that mattered to her was right here. Unlocking the door, she flipped the Closed sign around to read Open.

She stood there for a minute and drew in a deep breath. Thyme, rosemary and ripe oranges blended with the lemon oil Grandmother Mack had taught her to use lovingly on the old wood counters. To some the store with its many additions might look like a hodgepodge. To Tibby it was home—and had been since shortly after her tenth birthday, the spring her missionary parents died in a Brazilian mud slide. She loved every nook and cranny of the rambling house and the store. Both were solid structures. Safe.

Happy as she’d once been in Brazil, fond memories were overshadowed by the frightening pain of loss. People lived to a ripe old age in Yaqui Springs. As Tibby ran water for the coffee, she took comfort in that thought.

A group of coffee-bar regulars, townsmen who stopped to sample her special blend and her cardamon or poppyseed rolls before they went to play golf at Bogey Wells, arrived before the coffee finished perking. They seemed unusually ebullient—Cole O’Donnell again?—but Tibby was too busy catching up on her work to eavesdrop. Besides, the point of her newly installed tea-and-coffee bar was to run itself. Ideally people filled their own cups and bussed the tables afterward. She made fresh rolls and sandwiches daily, placing them in a refrigerated case for easy access. She’d installed a small microwave in the alcove for her patrons’ convenience. If she was busy in the office, pharmacy or beauty shop, folks were more or less left on the honor system. Lara Mack had operated on trust, and Tibby saw no reason to change.