“I won’t do it. I won’t sign the divorce petition.”

“No problem. I’ll sign it. As long as one of us has been resident here. And we qualify on just about all grounds.” Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Except impotence.”

“I’ll contest the divorce,” Callie said.

“You can’t contest irreconcilable differences.”

“Yes, I can – and that’s not all I can do. The judge can order us to attend counselling for a month.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “I’m not doing any counselling.”

“You never know. You might even benefit from some relationship counselling.”

“We don’t have a relationship,” he snarled, losing all pretence at calm.

Abby Gaines wrote her first romance novel as a teenager. She typed it up and sent it to Mills & Boon, who promptly rejected it. A flirtation with a science fiction novel never really got off the ground, so Abby put aside her writing ambitions as she went to college, then began her working life at IBM. When she and her husband had their first baby, Abby worked from home as a freelance business journalist…and soon after that the urge to write romance resurfaced. It was another five long years before Abby sold her first novel in 2006.

Abby lives with her husband and children – and a labradoodle and a kitten – in a house with enough stairs to keep her fit and a sun-filled office whose sea view provides inspiration for the funny, tender romances she loves to write. Visit her at www.abbygaines.com.

The Groom Came Back

by

Abby Gaines

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Preview

Copyright

For Victoria Curran,

with thanks for your support – and your patience!

Thanks for helping me become a better writer.

Chapter One

CALLIE SUMMERS RECOGNIZED her husband the moment he walked in the door of Fresher Flowers. He, however, clearly had no idea who she was.

Her smile of welcome faded in the face of Jack Mitchell’s utter lack of recognition. Could eight years, ten thousand dollars’ worth of orthodontic treatments and a great haircut make that much difference?

Jack ducked a hanging basket of trailing clematis and stepped around the center display of post-Arbor Day markdowns. As he neared Callie, his glance skimmed her sky-blue tank—she’d grown breasts since she’d last seen him, too—and swooped down her short blue-and-white skirt to her ankles, then back up to her face. There was nothing as blatant as admiration in his gray-green eyes—more a keen observation.

You didn’t get to be a top neurosurgeon without developing powers of observation, Callie supposed. Even if his memory was somewhat deficient.

“Hi,” he said. “I hear you’re the best florist in Parkvale.” Had his smile been that sexy eight years ago?

Of course not. At seventeen, she’d viewed Jack’s twenty-six years as a source of comfort, of protection. Besides, those hadn’t been happy days.

“Good morn—uh—afternoon.” Callie’s attempt at formality to mark this one-sided reunion fizzled as she struggled to remember if it was past twelve yet; she closed at twelve-thirty on Saturdays. She finished arranging stems of gerbera—orange and crimson and pink—in a galvanized steel bucket set on an iron stand. Then she stepped forward, brushing her hands against her skirt, in case Jack had actually recognized her and planned to shake her hand or…something. “I like to think I do a great job for my clients—not that Alice at Darling Buds isn’t very talented,” she added hastily.

She totally lacked the killer instinct she needed for Fresher Flowers to flourish on the scale her loan officer demanded.

Jack’s smile turned confiding. “I’m in a hurry. I need—” he glanced around in the blankly searching manner common to most men who walked into Callie’s store “—some flowers.”

She might be short on killer instinct, but her sense of mischief was in full working order. “Are they for your wife?”

He recoiled. “I’m not—”

She saw in his frown the sudden uncomfortable realization that here in Parkvale, Tennessee, he was indeed married. Even if no one else knew about it.

He folded his arms and looked down at her—she’d forgotten how tall he was—his mouth a wry twist. “They’re for my mother, Brenda Mitchell. Do you know her?”

“I know her well. She’s wonderful.” Callie let a trace of what she felt for Brenda into her voice. But although Jack picked up on it—his dark eyebrows lifted a fraction—there was still no flash of recognition. Nor did he endorse her comment about his mother.

So much for Brenda’s insistence that Jack missed his family. That he wanted to come home from his prestigious job at Oxford University Hospital in England. That he would have come home sooner, if only there wasn’t always another life to save.

Callie had suspected for a long time that Jack had simply outgrown his family. Only she knew that, if he had his way, this visit would sever one of the last of his ties.

She held his gaze and smiled warmly, giving him one more chance to click. “How much would you like to spend on your mom?”

“Since you know her, how about you make up something she’d like, without worrying about the price?” He glanced at his watch—platinum not steel, she guessed—then out the window, checking on the black Jaguar parked in the street.

“How generous of you.” A little nip, not strong enough to qualify as a bite.

Now those expressive eyebrows drew together. “Excuse me?”

You can’t make up for eight years of absence with a hundred-dollar bunch of flowers. “Brenda likes irises,” she said, with a fierceness that was at first on Brenda’s behalf, because she wouldn’t dream of criticizing her darling son, and then for Callie herself. “And delphiniums.”

He blinked. “Irises and delphiniums it is, then,” he said in a calm tone she could imagine him using with a patient while he waited for the men in white coats.

If she’d told him Brenda liked carnations and pansies he wouldn’t have known any better.

The answer to the question that had plagued Callie for weeks—how will I feel when I see Jack?—hit her with the force of a hurricane.

She was furious.

BY THE TIME Jack climbed back into the Jaguar, the best rental car available from the airport in Memphis, nearly all the stores on Bicentennial Square had closed. This place was dead on the weekends, and only marginally breathing during the week. He glanced at his watch as he pulled out into the light Saturday traffic, and wondered what time it was in Oxford and whether he could call this afternoon to check up on his patients. Wondered what time the Marquette County courthouse opened on Monday.

How soon he could get a divorce.

Maybe he should, as the cute but moody florist had suggested, have bought flowers for her. His wife. Callista Jane Summers, according to the youthful scrawl on the marriage license application. But a bunch of yellow roses wouldn’t suffice to thank her.

He stopped at one of Parkvale’s dozen sets of traffic lights, then headed out of the square on treelined Main Street.

The elms, planted the year Jack was born, had grown taller in his absence. Yet the town itself had shrunk. It had always been too small, and now was Lilliputian. He’d no sooner started down Main when it was time to hang a left on Forsyth, and only seconds later, he was turning right into Stables Lane.

The narrow, dead-end avenue wasn’t much longer than a stone’s throw. A couple of cars were parked with two wheels on the sidewalk to allow passage. Jack pulled into his parents’ driveway, behind his father’s Ford Ranger pickup.

He left everything in the car except the flowers, wrapped in layers of lilac and green paper. The florist had told him what they were, but apart from the irises he’d forgotten. She’d done a nice job, that girl in the sexy blue tank. Jack had been surprised to learn from the guy at the gas station that Parkvale now boasted four florists. Eight years ago, he’d bought a corsage for his…bride…at the town’s sole flower shop, conveniently situated across the road from the hospital.

He gripped the flowers tighter, and steeled himself as he headed up the walk. For the overdue reunion with his parents. For the inevitable encounter with Callista Jane Summers.

Dealing with Callie would be the easy part, he reminded himself. She was a good kid, and fully aware of the favor he’d done her. And although her e-mails had come irritatingly close to nagging about the need for him to come home, she wanted the same thing as he did where their marriage was concerned.

Whereas his parents…It had been easier to stay away than get their hopes up about him coming back and “settling down.”

What was the bet that within half an hour he’d be fending off suggestions that he switch from neurosurgery to dermatology or geriatrics or something equally unlikely, and apply for a job in Parkvale?

His mother must have heard the car, because she showed up in the doorway, hopping from one foot to another like a kid of ten. “Jack!” Her delighted squeal gave him an unexpected lift. He took the porch steps in two strides, and grabbed her for a hug.

“You’re so tall, I can’t believe it.” Brenda squeezed him with the strength of a woman who’d had years of kneading her own bread dough.

“Cut it out, Mom. I’m no taller than I was when we caught up in New York last year.”

“I forgot then, too,” she said, unashamed.

“Maybe you’re getting shorter.” That earned him a swat on the back as he stepped over the threshold. He turned to hand her the flowers, which hadn’t suffered from being squashed in that hug.

“Jack, they’re gorgeous.” Brenda sniffed deeply at the bouquet, then sent him a sly smile. “I’ll bet I know where you got these.”

“The best florist in town,” he said easily.

His mom beamed. “Isn’t she just?”

Something about that beam, which smacked of personal pride, rang alarm bells in Jack’s head.

Then his mom said, “Everyone’s here to see you, sweetie. I put on a light lunch,” and he forgot about the florist.

“Everyone” meant a bunch of Mitchell relatives, and a “light lunch” meant a groaning buffet table, doubtless including his mother’s signature dish, Parkvale Curried Chicken Salad. He’d kind of missed Parkvale Curried Chicken Salad, which bore no resemblance to anything from India and had only a passing acquaintance with curry powder.

Brenda shepherded him into the living room of the Victorian house. High-ceilinged, deep-windowed, it at least was still the size he remembered. “He’s here,” she announced.

Uncle Frank and Aunt Nancy occupied the window seat. Their daughter, Sarah, held hands on the couch with a dark-haired man, and Jack vaguely recalled news of an engagement, plans for a June wedding. The two guys over by the bookcase must be Mark and Jason, Sarah’s older brothers. They’d both bulked up in eight years and Mark—or was it Jason?—had a serious facial hair thing going.

“Son, it’s great to see you.” Jack’s father caught him in an easy hug. He must have closed the hardware store early, since Dan usually liked to put in a full day on Saturday. “I mean in the flesh,” Dan joked, “not just on TV.”

“Good to see you, too, Dad.” Jack shook his hand.

Dan put a possessive arm around Brenda, who leaned into him with the loving look that Jack forever associated with his parents.

Situation normal. It didn’t take a medical degree to see everything was as it had always been. Whatever point Callie had been trying to make in her e-mails, she was wrong.

Jack moved around the room, greeting his relatives, being introduced to the fiancé, accepting congratulations for the TV documentary that had recently aired on his pioneering surgical techniques. He’d completed his circuit, said his fourth “No, I’m not back for good” and accepted a beer, when through the picture window, he saw a white Honda coupe pull up across the end of his parents’ driveway, blocking his car in.

Jack tugged at the collar of his shirt. He reminded himself he could leave town anytime he liked; it was crazy to feel as if his escape route had been cut off.

A woman got out of the car. Huh, the florist. Jack patted his back pocket. Nope, he hadn’t left his wallet in the store.

She walked up the path, her stride purposeful, her hips swinging. From this distance, he got perspective on her figure, which really was great.

“Uh, Mom…” He gestured toward the window.

“There she is,” Brenda said, pleased.

The florist hadn’t been kidding when she said she knew his mom well. So well that she walked in the front door without knocking or waiting to be admitted. Everyone in the room greeted her with familiarity, a ragged succession of heys and hellos.

“Sweetie, you did a wonderful job with these flowers.” It took Jack a second to realize that his mom was talking to the woman, not him. Her use of the family endearment “sweetie” niggled, no matter that in his younger years he’d derided it.

“I was looking at some old photos the other day,” Brenda said to Jack, “and I couldn’t believe how Callie has changed. I’m amazed you recognized her.”

Who would have guessed Jack had a degree from Harvard Medical School and postgraduate qualifications from Oxford University, when it took him five long seconds to realize what should have been glaringly obvious the moment he’d stepped into that damn shop?

The woman standing six feet away from him, lips curved in a smile but blue eyes sparking with an emotion that was far from friendly, was Callie. Callista Jane Summers. The woman he’d married.

“Actually, Brenda, he didn’t recognize me,” she said. “And I’m afraid I was naughty. I didn’t tell him.”

Jack knew from that flash in her eyes there’d been more than mischief behind her omission. What the heck was going on?

Brenda laughed, delighted. “That’s just gorgeous. Jack, did you really have no idea?”

Without taking his eyes off Callie, he said to his mom, “You never told me she’s a florist. I thought she renovates houses.”

“I buy houses and do them up in my spare time so I can sell them again.” Callie met his gaze full on. She didn’t need to tell him that, dammit; she’d been using his money to fund her little DIY venture. “But I trained as a florist, and I’ve had my own store nearly a year.”

“Now that you know who she is—” Brenda patted his arm “—you can greet her properly.”

His head snapped around. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Callie’s do the same. Surely Mom didn’t mean…

“Give her a kiss,” Brenda urged, just as she used to make him kiss his sister, Lucy, on her birthday.

He looked at Callie, saw in her eyes the acknowledgment that any refusal would cause more trouble than either of them needed. He moved toward her, just as she took a halting step in his direction.

She offered him her right cheek. He brushed it with his lips, and though the contact lasted only a fraction of a second, it was long enough to feel the contrast between the satiny smoothness of her skin and the dry hardness of his lips. Long enough to pick up the scent of jasmine and roses and something else uniquely floral. She’s a florist, so of course she smells like a garden.

She pulled away fast, leaving Jack feeling as if his lips were stranded on a street corner. Brenda murmured her approval.

Callie clasped her hands behind her back so she wouldn’t rub her cheek where Jack had kissed it. Her brain faltered and she found herself saying, “So, how long are you in town?”

She knew, of course. She was the one who’d told him he needed to be resident in the county for thirty days before they could file for a no-fault divorce. The quizzical furrow in his brow confirmed that not only did he distrust her thanks to her “joke,” he now doubted her mental capacity.

“He’s here for a month,” Brenda said happily. “Such a treat for us that he was able to convince the hospital to let him go that long.”

“Lucky us,” Callie said.

“I can’t wait to reintroduce him around town,” his mother said. “I’m thinking a walk in the park on Monday, the school board meeting on Tuesday—”

“Just leave him some time to come by the store,” Dan interrupted.

“I hope to also get up to Memphis to visit the neurological team at Northcross Hospital,” Jack said. He glanced at his watch, as if counting the hours and minutes until he could board a 747 and raise a champagne glass in a toast to his escape.

You’re not going anywhere, Callie told him silently. “If you’re looking for a medical fix, you can always check out the new geriatric ward at Parkvale Hospital,” she said. “They say it’s state-of-the-art for a facility of its size.”

Brenda had asked Callie to make the suggestion. “You do it, sweetie. I wouldn’t want him to think I’m pressuring him to move back here,” she’d said, as she polished the silverware for today’s lunch for the third time.

Jack’s shoulders were rigid, but his expression neutral, as he said, “I’m a pediatric neurosurgeon, specializing in vascular malformations of the brain. I have no interest in geriatrics.” He’d reverted to that calm tone he’d used in her shop. He definitely thought Callie wasn’t the sharpest thorn on the rose.

“You mean, other than your parents.” Callie grinned at Brenda to show she didn’t seriously consider the woman a geriatric. Then she directed a squinty-eyed glare at Jack, a warning that she wasn’t about to tolerate his lack of interest in his family.

“If you have something in your eye, I could take a look,” he said helpfully.

Any thought that he’d misunderstood vanished when Callie read the return message in his hard gaze: my relationship with my parents is none of your business.

You made it my business, Dr. Selfish. There was one good thing about the way he was living down to her expectations; she no longer felt bad about that little lie she’d told him. She composed her features, declined his offer of medical assistance and removed the kid gloves. “If you want to know what’s been happening the past eight years, I’ll be happy to fill you in.”

Surprise flickered across his face, as if he wasn’t used to people disobeying even his unspoken orders.

“Thanks, but Mom sends me regular updates. You’re still living with my folks?”

Only Callie heard the slight emphasis on the my. Only she recognized his question for what it was: a reminder that she’d benefited from their marriage, too. It had extricated her from an unpleasant custody battle and allowed her to continue living with Brenda and Dan.

“Not at the moment.” Callie grabbed a flowershaped bowl of peanuts from the sideboard. If she didn’t have something to do with her hands, she might slug Jack. “I move in and out, depending on the stage of my latest renovation project.” She offered the nuts around.

“My rule is that if the house she’s working on doesn’t have a functioning kitchen and bathroom, she has to live here.” Dan helped himself to the peanuts, then settled into his recliner.

“Why don’t you kids sit down so you can have a good chat?” Brenda tried to usher Callie and Jack toward the two-seater couch. Jack didn’t move. Neither did Callie. She had the crazy thought that whoever sat first would lose this battle. Unwilling to ignore Brenda, she leaned against the sideboard.

“Handy for you,” Jack commented, “having this place to come back to when you need it.”

She bristled. Was he forgetting their secret wedding had freed him to go back to his illustrious career?

She hadn’t seen it that way at the time, and she liked to think he hadn’t, either. She’d barely known Jack. He’d been working in Boston even before she moved in with the Mitchells—but she’d figured him for a decent guy whose instinct was to protect his parents from further hurt. With her mother’s encouragement, Callie had accepted that protection for herself, too.

She hadn’t had a choice.

“We love having Callie around,” Brenda said. “The house seems so empty when she’s not here—” she waved a hand at the packed-to-the-gills living room “—but at least we know she’ll always come back.”

Callie knew any reference to Jack’s prolonged absence was unintentional. But his mouth tightened.

“Quite a lovefest you have going with my parents,” he murmured.

Whose fault was that? she wanted to ask. Somewhere along the line, their marriage had become a means for Jack to abdicate his family responsibilities to her.

“Callie is family,” Dan said, almost sharply. “She’s been a daughter to us ever since…”

No one needed him to complete the sentence. Ever since Lucy died.

Callie saw the flicker of pain on Brenda’s features. Darn it, Callie still missed Lucy, too, especially at this time of year. Jack needed to confront the reality of being his parents’ only surviving child. Before his month here was up, she wanted his commitment to helping his mom and to being an active part of his parents’ lives as they aged. He didn’t have to live in Parkvale—that might bore him into an early grave and defeat the purpose—but she did expect him to act like a son. To improve his current performance a zillion percent.

“Much as I love you guys—” she kept her tone light, not wanting thoughts of Lucy to dampen Brenda’s joy in the day “—Jack’s your family more than I’ll ever be.” She beamed at the prodigal son, raised her voice and threw down the gauntlet. “Welcome home, Jack. May this be the first of many visits.”

Aunt Nancy clapped in agreement, and a couple of the cousins cheered. Brenda hugged her son.

“Thanks, Callie,” he said, his jaw tight, as if he’d bitten into a bad apple but was too polite to spit it out.

Callie saw in his eyes the intention to perform a medical misadventure on her if she didn’t drop the subject. She straightened her spine, forced her smile wider, sunnier. Standing this close, he looked taller than he had at the shop. Broader than he had eight years ago. And less friendly. Jack Mitchell was no doting but forgetful son in need of a gentle nudge. He was too self-centered, too famous, and he’d grown too big for his small-town roots.

Brenda moved to the doorway, called for attention. “Time for lunch, folks.”

Just as Jack suspected, in the dining room, the 1970s rosewood-veneered table was laden with so much food, he could scarcely see Brenda’s best lace tablecloth. His ever-considerate relatives each stood back and waited for the others to serve themselves potato salad, assorted roast vegetables, thick slices of beef sirloin and dollops of Parkvale Curried Chicken Salad.

If Jack hadn’t started the ball rolling, they’d have still been there at four o’clock, saying “You first” and “No, after you.”

The dining table only sat six people, so they dispersed back to the living room to eat. Between mouthfuls of superbly tender beef—he did miss his mom’s cooking—Jack chatted with his parents, all the time aware of Callie talking to Uncle Frank over by the window. She laughed at something Frank said, and the sound was musical, with none of the faux friendliness she’d used on Jack.

Sensing his scrutiny, she looked across at him.

He had two abiding memories of their wedding. One was the dumb joke she’d made—out of nerves, he knew, so he’d struggled to hide his irritation. The other was of Callie’s glance sliding away from his. The floor, her bitten fingernails, the air above his head, everything had been easier to look at than Jack.

Now, he felt as if she’d been examining him since the moment he walked into her shop. Her eyes were the brilliant blue found in some Renaissance paintings he’d admired at the Louvre. And like the Mona Lisa’s, they seemed to follow him everywhere. Unlike the Mona Lisa, there was nothing mysterious about Callie’s expression. Jack knew anger when he saw it.

The room suddenly felt stifling, although outside it was only in the mid-seventies.

He glanced away. Callie was like a kid sister. Which meant he wasn’t about to go noticing her eyes or her figure or anything else about her. She probably thought it was her job in life to bug him.

Unfortunately for her, getting riled wasn’t on his agenda. He was here to see his parents and to end his marriage. Simple.

He set his plate down on the sideboard. “Mom, I’ll get my bag out of the car. Am I in my old room?”

His mother’s brow creased. “I guess…if you don’t mind the color.”

It had always been navy blue.

“I moved into your room five years ago,” Callie explained, breaking off her chat with Frank. She was obviously listening in to Jack’s conversations, as well as watching his every move. “I painted it lilac and stenciled a floral border in carmine and magenta.”

What the hell colors were carmine and magenta? Ones Jack wouldn’t like, going by her smirk.

Jack’s sense of grievance swelled. First there’d been her failure to tell him who she was, then her subtle sniping. And now, her unmistakable pleasure in forcing him to sleep in a room whose color scheme would have him talking an octave higher by morning.

Jack wondered if any of Parkvale’s lawyers worked weekends.

Chapter Two

“BEND FORWARD, dear.” Aunt Nancy’s voice was muffled by a mouthful of pins.

Obediently, Callie leaned over. The scooped bodice of the champagne-colored bridesmaid’s dress gaped open.

“Goodness,” Nancy said, “that’s just about indecent.”

“Pretty, though,” Brenda said.

When Callie would have straightened, Nancy tapped her on the arm. “Let me pin it first, dear.”

“Mom, if you think Callie’s dress is indecent, wait till you see mine,” the bride called from the dressing room attached to Nancy’s basement sewing studio. Nancy was semiretired from her dressmaking business, but the studio had seen a lot of action since Sarah announced her engagement.

“I had a neckline up to here when I got married.” Nancy touched her chin, ignoring the fact that her daughter couldn’t see. “I don’t understand why you girls want to flaunt it all in church.”

She finished pinning the seam on one side of the dress, so Callie was now flaunting lopsided. Nancy moved around to her left.

The door to the studio opened. “Sweetie,” Brenda said, “I haven’t seen the bride yet. Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”

“No problem.” Jack’s voice.

Callie straightened up fast, tugging the gaping side of her bodice close to her chest. He strolled into the room, all lean-hipped masculinity, enhanced by jeans that had been worn often enough to fit exactly how they should, and an open-necked shirt that was the perfect blend of tailored and casual.

“Doesn’t Callie look beautiful?” Brenda prompted him.

He nodded at Callie, neither friendly nor hostile. “Seems like you’re doing a great job with the dresses, Aunt Nancy.”

His mouth curved into that smile that should come with a hazard warning. Callie added too handsome to the list of Jack Mitchell’s failings. Even if Brenda got over her scruples about pressuring him to move closer to home, he would melt any objection with that smile.

Nancy beamed. “You’re so sweet, Jack, I feel better just for seeing you.”

Oh, please. As if he didn’t already have a big enough opinion of his doctoring abilities.

“I don’t know if I can take much credit for how good this dress looks on Callie,” Nancy continued. “The color is gorgeous on her. All I need to do is fix this.”

This turned out to be Callie’s left breast; to her mortification, Nancy patted it. Jack followed the movement with interest.

“She means the dress needs adjusting there,” Callie muttered.

“I wish your mom could be here to see how pretty you grew up,” Brenda said, her voice shaky.

Instantly, Callie’s throat clogged. She nodded, blinking hard.

Her mom, Jenny, had been best friends with Brenda in high school right here in Parkvale, until Jenny hitched a ride out of town after graduation. Years later, when leukemia forced her to give up wandering, Brenda had taken her and Callie into their home. There’d been an added bonus—Callie had clicked with Lucy Mitchell from the first minute and they’d become best friends, just like their moms. Peas in a pod, Brenda called them.

“Mom’s right,” Jack said quietly. “Jenny would be proud of you. On all counts.” He touched Callie’s arm, a gesture of understanding she hadn’t expected. Her skin felt warm where his hand had made contact. He smiled again, a more intimate smile this time, that gave her just a glimpse of his perfect teeth.

Callie ran her tongue over her own now-perfect teeth. A couple of days after their wedding her mother had suggested she see an orthodontist. Her mom had liked Jack’s teeth; she’d liked everything about him.

Maybe, on the inside, Jack was still that same decent guy. Callie’s conviction that she’d been justified in lying to him ahead of his return to Parkvale wavered, and not just because he would soon discover her deception.

She shook off the twinge of guilt. Okay, Jack had displayed a moment’s sensitivity. But that was far out-weighed by eight years of his money-is-no-object-just-don’t-ask-for-my-time philosophy. He sent expensive gifts from England at the right times, yet it seemed it was always the wrong time to pick up the phone.

“I’m coming out,” Sarah announced from behind the curtain.

Aunt Nancy flapped her hands to gain the attention of the audience.

The bride emerged, stunning in a low-cut ivory silk dress. “Oooh,” Nancy gasped, and started dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

“Wow, cuz, you turned out not bad looking,” Jack said.

Sarah stuck out her tongue. Then her eyes widened. “Uh…Aunt Brenda?”

Callie turned, and saw Brenda, white-faced, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Mom,” Jack said, alarmed.

Brenda waved her hands in front of her eyes. “Sorry…can’t…stop…” The words came out as hiccuping sobs. Then she smiled—a deliberate clamping of the teeth, widening of the lips. “You look…so…beautiful.”

Nancy offered her own damp tissue, patted her sister-in-law’s shoulder. When Brenda didn’t show any signs of drying up, a tangible unease rippled through the room.

At least the women felt it. Jack looked awkward, but not bothered. He probably thought women reacted like this all the time at the sight of a bride.

“Jack,” Callie said sharply, “how about you take your mom home?”

He followed her cue. “Right. Let’s go, Mom.” He led the still-weeping Brenda from the room while Callie raced to get changed. Nancy would have to adjust the left breast another day.

By the time she got out to the street, Brenda was in the Jaguar and had stopped crying. But her pallor was alarming.

Callie leaned in through the window. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, sweetie, you don’t need to tell me I over-reacted in there.” Brenda sounded her normal self. Only her white-knuckled grip on her purse revealed her stress.

“Hey, it was an emotional moment,” Jack said from the driver’s seat.

As if he knew the first thing about it! Brenda’s tears were exactly the kind of change in behavior Callie had warned him about, and he’d chosen to ignore the heads-up. But now wasn’t the time to argue. “Nancy will understand,” she told Brenda.

Jack’s mother bit her lip. “Nancy might,” she said carefully, “but Dan won’t.”

“Huh?” Jack said.

“Dan might not hear,” Callie said. But of course Nancy would tell Frank, and Frank would repeat it to his brother.

Brenda dropped her head back against the seat. “I must look a mess.”

“You look fine,” Jack assured her.

Honestly, the man had no idea! Callie hadn’t wanted him back in town so he could humor his mom.

“I’d like to freshen up before we go home,” Brenda told Callie.

“How about a cup of tea at the Eating Post?”

“Thank you.” Brenda reached awkwardly to squeeze Callie’s hand through the open window.

“So…we’re going to the Eating Post?” Jack asked.

“That’s right,” Callie said. “I’ll follow you in my car.”

The restaurant was on the opposite side of Bicentennial Square from Fresher Flowers. Being Sunday, the place was deserted. Brenda headed straight to the bathroom; Callie led Jack to a table.

He slid into the other side of the booth from her. She drew a breath, and in the confined space, she inhaled him—soap and mint, the fresh-pressed cotton of his shirt, the scent of expensive leather. She sat back.

“Tell me why we’re having tea,” he said. “You and Mom were talking in code back there.”

“To give your mother some time to pull herself together before she sees Dan.”

He half laughed. “Dad’s seen her upset before. I think he can handle it.” He signaled to the waitress that they were ready to order.

“Dan doesn’t like this kind of upset.”

“It’s the time of year,” Jack said. “I’d expect them both to be a little tense.”

“That’s part of it,” Callie admitted. Last week had been the anniversary of the day Lucy had drowned. She’d been swimming in the Tallee River during a school picnic. “There was certainly friction last year, but this year, your parents have been…stressed.”

Jack looked skeptical. “Mom and Dad are rock solid.”

Callie wanted to ask, How would you know? Instead, aware Brenda might return any moment, she forced herself to loosen her grip on the edge of the table.

“I didn’t expect to see you at Nancy’s house,” she said conversationally. “I thought you’d be sleeping off your jet lag.”

“Lying in bed staring at that mauve-and-magenta border was making me nauseous.”

Callie tried hard not to imagine Jack lying in bed. Then she remembered it was her bed, when she was staying with Dan and Brenda. Casually, she ran the back of her hand over one cheek, then the other. Definitely warm. Probably red.

Jack leaned forward, his gaze assessing. “Are you okay? Do you have a fever?”

Good grief, did he have to try to diagnose her every reaction?

“I’m fine,” she practically snapped. The only thing wrong with her was that she needed to spend less time talking to flowers and more time with living, breathing men, because her brain was still hung up on that bed thing.

He leaned in even farther to look at her, as if he could see right into the neural pathways of her mind.

Yikes. She eased away, thankful for the arrival of the waitress, and ordered tea for Brenda and herself. Jack asked for coffee.

When the woman left, he said abruptly, “You’re mad at me.”

“Excuse me?”

Jack had lain awake most of the night, due to a combination of jet lag and racing thoughts rather than lilacpaint-induced nausea. At 3:00 a.m., he’d turned his mind to Callie, and concluded that getting annoyed at her was counterproductive, given he needed her cooperation.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you at the shop,” he said. No woman liked to think she was forgettable. He should have realized that earlier.

“You think I’d get mad about something like that?” She gave a toss of her nut-brown hair, which must have highlights in it, the way it caught the light and glinted gold where it touched her shoulders. “I took it as a compliment. I figured I’m a big improvement over the last time you saw me.”

She was definitely ticked off. Unused to her brand of challenge—though he suspected he’d be getting used to it pretty fast—he drummed his fingers on the table. “If I say yes, I insult you as you were then, and if I say no, I’ll insult you today.”

“Which one’s it going to be?” she asked.

Jack laughed, suddenly relaxing. Okay, so Callie was moody, but she was harmless. And funny. Diana, Jack’s recently departed girlfriend, was a sophisticated, successful pediatrician, but she didn’t have much of a sense of humor. Especially not about Jack’s secret marriage.

Which brought him back to why he’d wanted to pick his mom up from this afternoon’s dress fitting.

He’d completed the first item on his agenda: apologize for not recognizing Callie. He was willing to do number two, if necessary: soothe any feathers he might have ruffled by hogging the limelight with his parents. Jealousy was the other possible explanation for her snarkiness that had occurred to him in the middle of the night.

“How about we call a truce?” he said. Item number three.

Callie looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “I don’t want us to argue.”

Even better, they were on the same wavelength. “Good,” he said briskly. On to item number four. “We need to meet with a lawyer about the divorce. Can you make time tomorrow? And do you have anyone in mind?”

Her head bobbed at the change of subject. A frown put a little line above the bridge of her nose. “I don’t think it’s wise to see someone local. They’re all members of Rotary and know your dad. I use a firm in Memphis for my loans. We could go there.”

“Are they okay?”

She wrinkled her nose again, which somehow drew Jack’s attention to her lips, full and pinky-red. “They’re good value. And they’re right across the road from my bank.”

He tsked. “Imagine if people chose their doctor that way—cheap and handy to the bank.”

“No one would do that. Doctors are much more important than lawyers.” Her eyes were wide and innocent.

Jack was torn between amusement and exasperation. Callie had a mischievous streak a mile wide. Lucy would be the same, if she were still alive. He put the thought aside.

“I have a buddy in Memphis who had an irregular marriage situation,” he said.

She snickered at his choice of words.

“I’ll call him,” Jack said, ignoring her. He saw his mom emerge from the restroom. “I’ll find out who he used, set up a meeting.”

“I’ll leave it with you,” Callie said.

Mission accomplished.

BY THE TIME THEY GOT Brenda home, there was no trace of tears. She confessed to Dan that she’d had “one of my turns, sweetie, but I’m all right now.”

“Not again,” Dan said. Callie wondered if Jack noticed that his father’s impatience bordered on rudeness. And that Brenda’s repeated apology had a take-it-or-leave-it-edge.

Callie left. Jack called later to say he’d arranged for them to meet his friend’s lawyer in Memphis the next evening. For a guy who paid so little attention to his family, he was taking quite an active interest in their divorce.

The drive to Memphis took nearly three hours, so it would be a late night and Callie would have to close Fresher Flowers early, at four.

Closing early meant hustling her Monday afternoon regulars—a mother whose toddler loved to sniff the flowers; two elderly men; three women who circled the shop together complaining about the prices—out the door before they were ready.

As she tried to shepherd them out without being rude, Jack pulled up in the black Jaguar. He got out of the car, frowning when he saw the Open sign in her window.

Callie frowned back.

He observed the departing shoppers’ empty hands. “Did any of those people buy anything?”

“Not this time.” Callie brushed at the lily pollen on her skirt, even though experience told her she needed to lift it off with sticky tape, then hang the skirt out in the sun. Predictably, the yellow streaks didn’t budge from the white cotton. “I get a few people coming here because they find flowers restful, or the scent brings back memories,” she said. “And those old men…I think they’re lonely.”

“So is bankruptcy. There was no one in here last time I came, either.”

“You were here and you spent a hundred dollars,” she said acerbically. “As far as I’m concerned your money’s as welcome as anyone else’s.”

Jack held up his hands in a butting-out gesture. “What do we need to do to get out of here?” Oh, yeah, we’re having a truce.

Together, they brought in the tubs of flowers from outside. Jack’s clothing was immaculate, his jeans and long-sleeved, bronze-colored polo shirt fitting as if custom-made, but he didn’t seem concerned about the threat of pollen or other dirt. Callie chalked up a small point in his favor. His thick dark hair and chiseled cheekbones, on the other hand, were not pluses. They only encouraged women to fawn over him. When she got married for real, Callie thought, if she got married for real, she’d never find a guy as good-looking—her shallow side felt a pang of regret—but at least she’d find someone unselfish.

Jack waited while she locked up, then held the car door open for her.

The Jaguar was every bit as luxurious as it looked. Virtually no engine noise penetrated the interior; Jack pressed a button on the console and Norah Jones wafted through discreetly located speakers.

As they pulled away from the lights at the intersection of Main and Fifth, Callie waved to a group of men. One of them waved back.

“Who was that?” Jack asked.

She rolled her eyes. “Your cousin Jason.”

“Thought so.”

“With his brother, also your cousin.”

“Excellent guys,” he said.

“So excellent that you don’t remember what they look like from one day to the next.”

“Hey, I didn’t get a more than a glimpse of them just now.”

Callie cautioned herself against launching into Jack with an accusation that he hadn’t recognized his family because he didn’t give a damn about anyone in Parkvale. Truce, she reminded herself again. She’d bet money he liked being criticized even less than most people. So when she said her piece tonight, she’d do it without yelling.

She pressed her lips together as Jack turned right and joined the interstate. She adjusted her seat, tested the smoothness of the leather upholstery with her fingers, then checked the glove compartment. Empty. She fiddled with the climate control for her side of the car. Cool air fanned her face, lifting her hair. She flipped the visor down to check if her hair was mussed. Hmm, not the best…She combed her fingers through it.

“Are you ADHD?” Jack asked.

Callie froze midcomb. “Will you stop doing that?”

“What?”

She dropped her hands into her lap. “Stop suggesting there’s something wrong with me every time I pull a face or scratch my nose.”

“I don’t.” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Sometimes a squint is just a squint and a scratch is just a scratch.”

“I’m a doctor. I notice these things.” He was using his calming-a-crazy-patient tone again.

“And stop talking in that irritating voice.”

“You mean this one?” he said soothingly.

She reached across and smacked his arm. Encountering solid muscle beneath his polo shirt, she whipped her hand away. Neurosurgery must be a lot more physical than she thought.

He looked down at his arm, where she’d touched him, then glanced sidelong at her. “ADHD might explain—”

“Stop,” she ordered. “You don’t have to be a doctor every minute of the day.”

He frowned. “Of course I do. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed what those are.” He waved at the variegated-leaved, deep red wildflowers growing alongside the interstate.

“Trilliums, Sweet Betsy variety,” she said automatically. “Common throughout the state.”

“See? If you can be a florist every minute of the day, I can be a doctor.” He paused. “So…no ADHD? Just a bad case of the fidgets?”

“I was keeping myself occupied so I wouldn’t get mad at you.”

He rubbed his chin. “You’re mad about me not recognizing my cousins?” His tone suggested there was no end to her unreasonableness.

“Yes…no…it’s more than that.” Callie chewed her lip, wondering where to start.

“We’re having a truce,” he reminded her.

“The only reason I’m holding back.”

He laughed. “Let’s talk about something that won’t make you mad. How’s the flower business?”

She twisted to face him. “Are you planning on offering more advice?”

“I have a responsibility to make sure you’re financially stable before we divorce.”

“Excuse me?”

“I promised your mother.” He didn’t sound as if he was kidding.

“I’m twenty-five,” Callie said. “Mom wouldn’t expect you to worry about me now.”

That was met with silence.

“I’m the least of your responsibilities.” A tiny dig she didn’t count as breaking their truce.

“Humor me,” he said, “and tell me how you’re doing. As soon as we get this divorce, you’re on your own.”

Callie shivered.

“You can turn the air down if you’re cold.” He adjusted the dial on her side.

He was doing it again. Callie’s fingers curled on her knees.

“I can’t figure out if you suffer from a total lack of sensitivity,” she said, “or if diagnosing a physical cause for every action comes with the high-handed, I-know-best doctor territory.”

With exaggerated care, he turned the temperature dial back up again. “If this is truce talk,” he said, “I’m glad we’re not fighting.”

Callie bared her teeth at him; it couldn’t be called a smile, but stopped short of a snarl.

Jack, on the other hand, did smile. “So, your finances. I assume your mom didn’t leave you much?”

“Her insurance was just enough to cover my orthodontist bills,” Callie said. Sensing his surprise, she added defensively, “At the time, it seemed good use of the money.”

Another of those sideways glances from Jack. She almost covered her mouth with her hand, the way she used to before her teeth were straightened. Talking about the past made her feel like that awkward seventeen-year-old again.

“Then, what, there was no money left for college?” He flipped his turn signal and zipped past a Winnebago.

“I got a one-year business diploma at community college, mostly paid for by your parents,” she said. “Even if there’d been the money for college, I would have chosen to stay in Parkvale.” In the interests of their truce, she kept any comparison with his leave-and-don’t-look-back attitude out of her voice.

“I guess you would, given the lengths we went to so you could stay with my folks,” he said, equally neutrally.

Callie relaxed. If they stayed on their best behavior, she could envisage them having a mature discussion about Dan and Brenda. The kind of discussion they should have had years ago, if only she’d been able to dump the image of Jack as the authoritative figure who’d made all the decisions, starting with their wedding.

“Do you realize,” she said, “the last time I traveled in a car with you was on our wedding day?”

Chapter Three

JACK STARED STRAIGHT through the windshield. “You were a nervous wreck. I didn’t think you’d go through with it.”

“You had enough confidence for both of us,” Callie said.

“Did I?” His face was inscrutable.

“So did Mom. It was the last big decision she made.”

By then, Jenny had been fighting leukemia for two years. And for six months, she’d been fighting a losing battle with her ex-husband’s parents, who’d petitioned for custody of sixteen-year-old Callie the moment they’d heard about Jenny’s illness. They’d also lodged a claim for immediate temporary custody on the basis her mom could no longer look after her.

Jenny’s own parents had died years earlier, and she was determined those wicked people, as she called her in-laws, would never have custody of her daughter. Callie had been equally determined not to go to her unknown grandparents. Parkvale, and more specifically Dan and Brenda Mitchell’s home, was the first proper home she’d known. Besides, her mother had needed her, and Callie had needed to stay with her mom until the end.

“But you weren’t convinced getting married was the right decision,” Jack suggested, bringing her back to the moment.

“I didn’t have any better ideas,” she hedged. She pointed to a police car up ahead; he nodded and eased off the gas. “I couldn’t think at all, what with Mom moving into long-stay hospital care…and then Lucy drowning.”

Jack, home from Boston for his sister’s funeral, had been accepted for postgraduate study at Oxford University. Brenda was already upset at the thought of him being so far away. After Lucy’s death, she was distraught.

It was Jack who’d come up with the brilliant idea that if Callie married him, which she could legally do with her mother’s permission, she would be beyond the reach of the Summers’s custody suit. Brenda and Dan would continue to have Callie, Lucy’s best friend and someone they doted on.

And Jack could escape, worry-free, to England.

“You have to admit, we were…underhanded,” Callie said.

He shifted his grip on the steering wheel. “We couldn’t have told Mom and Dad. They’re so hung up on the sanctity of marriage, there’s no way they’d have condoned it. And Mom wasn’t well.”

Brenda had plunged into a black depression when Lucy died. Only the routines of her normal life—which for her meant lavishing care on Dan and Callie—kept her going.

Jack was right. Keeping the wedding a secret had been the right thing to do—then and now.

Callie’s mom had been allowed out of the hospital for a couple of hours for the wedding, and the three of them traveled to the chapel in Jack’s beat-up Mustang. He’d presented Callie with a corsage—a pink rose, with baby’s breath. Unimaginative, but she’d thought it beautiful.

If she closed her eyes she could still smell that rose.

She’d literally been shaking from nerves. Jack had taken her hand, with nothing remotely sexual in his touch, and steadied her.

If the marriage celebrant thought there was anything odd about a handsome, assured doctor marrying a tongue-tied, gap-toothed schoolgirl, he didn’t show it. The ceremony took minutes, and afterward, Jenny cried tears of relief.

“It’s too late to regret our wedding now,” Jack said. “You need to think about your future. Is the flower business where you want to be long term?”

“I like the independence, being my own boss,” she said. “When I started Fresher Flowers nearly a year ago I’d been working at that store by the hospital for three years. I kept thinking I could do a better job than my boss.”

Jack nodded.

“The day I decided I could no longer stand seeing work that was less than perfect go out the door, I quit to go it alone.”

“Wasn’t that risky? It seems to be a competitive industry these days.”

She shrugged. “I travel up to Memphis at least a couple of mornings a week for the flower auction. It gives me an edge over my rivals, who mainly buy from wholesalers.”

“Do you own the building?”

“I rent, but I paid for the refit. With my money, not yours.”

She’d borrowed money from Jack five years ago to fund the down payment on her first house. After she’d renovated, buying her materials at cost from Dan’s hardware store, she’d sold the house and channeled part of the profit into the next one, part into her savings. Then repeated the pattern several times. The last two houses, she’d used all her own money. The shop refit had come out of her savings. She didn’t like to think how precarious that left her, but she couldn’t keep borrowing from Jack.

“You still use me as security for your mortgage, right?” he asked.

“Uh-huh. One look at your supersurgeon income and a loan officer is putty in my hands.” There was no risk to him, because she only bought properties she could acquire for below market value.

“Will our divorce make it harder for you to get a loan?”

She eyed his hands on the steering wheel—surgeon’s hands with long, tapered fingers. No rings. Just like hers.

“I’ll manage.” At their wedding, she’d worn her mother’s ring, then returned it to Jenny. It had come back to her in the plastic bag of her mother’s personal effects. Callie had put it in a box in her lingerie drawer, along with a shark-tooth pendant that had reportedly belonged to her father. She suspected Jenny had bought the pendant to give her some souvenir of the drifter dad who’d drifted away for good when she was eight.

Jack frowned as he downshifted to pass a semitrailer. The truck was an enormous red blur alongside the car. “I could continue to back your loans, I suppose.”

“Once the shop is doing better, it’ll serve as security,” Callie said. “I won’t need you.”

He pounced. “The business isn’t doing well?”

“It’s a start-up. These things take time.”

Jack drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “If you got married again you’d be more secure.”

She drew herself up in the seat. “You don’t think I can make a go of the shop?”

“Not if you see it as a hangout for the poor and lonely. You don’t want to get married?” he asked, mimicking her tone.

“To someone I love, sure,” she replied. “Not to get a bank loan.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Jack said, as if the possibility had only just occurred to him. As if she were chopped liver.

“I still see Rob sometimes,” she said coolly.

He frowned. “Rob?”

“Rob Hanson, the guy I was dating when we got married.”

Jack’s head jerked around. “I don’t remember that you were dating anyone.”

“Are you kidding?” Callie said. “I was crazy about him. As in love as only a teenager can be.”

He snorted. But he shifted in his seat, as if the news discomfited him.

“We dated for three years,” she said with relish. “Then we got engaged.”

Jack’s foot hit the brake, jolting the car. Instinctively, he flung out an arm to protect Callie as he fumbled for the gas pedal. He accidentally smacked into the softness of her breasts.

“Sorry,” he muttered, concentrating on keeping the car straight in the lane. Behind him, someone honked. Dammit, if he crashed this thing it would be her fault. He waved an apology to the other driver, brought the car back up to eighty. “How could you get engaged when you were married?” he demanded.

“We planned a long engagement.” She rubbed a hand across her breasts where he’d touched her; Jack tried not to look. “I figured you and I would have gotten around to a divorce by the time Rob and I set a wedding date.”

“Quite the juggling act.” The comment came out surly, which didn’t make sense. He cleared his throat.

“I’m surprised Brenda didn’t tell you I was engaged.”

“I don’t always get time to read every word of her e-mails,” he admitted.

Callie’s lips clamped together in a thin line that suggested considerable self-restraint.

“Did you say you’re still with, uh, Rob?” Jack asked.

She shook her head. “I broke off the engagement after a year. Four years ago.”

“Why?”

She didn’t answer. The hum of the tires against the pavement changed its rhythm as they started across a bridge. Callie looked out the window. Below them, the Mississippi River flowed high and fast, fed by the spring rains.

“Was he ugly?” Jack prompted.

“He’s very good-looking.”

“Dumb?”

“He’s not a brain surgeon, but he’s smart. Not arrogant,” she added, her meaning only too clear. “Rob’s a great guy. Anyone would be lucky to have him.”

“Except you.”

“We get along well, we go out sometimes.”

Jack looked across at her, and noticed her white skirt had ridden up to show an alluringly smooth length of thigh.

Something tugged inside him…something elemental that wasn’t on the list of appropriate feelings for Callie.

He banished it, disentangled his thoughts. He did not want to know exactly how much of each other she and Rob saw.

Then she ran her tongue across her lower lip and it was—dammit—it was sexy.

Appalled, Jack wrenched his gaze away. He needed to see her only as Callie, bratty kid sister, to keep this whole process simple.

Damn.

CALLIE WAS ASKING HERSELF for the thousandth time why she hadn’t gone ahead and married Rob, when she realized Jack had stopped coming up with helpful suggestions about how she should live, and had fallen silent.

It must be her turn to interfere in his life. Of course, she’d be more tactful than he was.

“A career like yours must make it hard to find time for meaningful relationships.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed; he wasn’t buying it. “I shouldn’t have stuck my nose into your love life, and I’m sorry.”

“I’m talking about your parents.”

He slowed the car as the traffic grew heavier. They were near Memphis now. “I admit I get busy, but I keep in regular contact.”

Was he deluded or lying? Callie decided not to use the word neglect, because that sounded negative. Ditto for abandon, selfish and uncaring. Where was the guy who’d squeezed her arm in comfort when she’d developed a bad case of shivers after their wedding? Who’d laughed out loud when she’d blurted an ancient Doctor, Doctor joke to lighten the moment? His kindness had convinced her everything would be okay. As okay as it could be.

Stick with the facts, the way a doctor would. “When you called to say you were coming home, they hadn’t heard from you in two months—that was just a quick e-mail—and before that it was a five-minute phone call three months earlier.”

An ominous silence filled the car. “Did Mom complain to you?”

“She would never criticize you.”

“Maybe you should take a leaf out of her book.” The reasonable words had an acid edge. “Because if she’s happy…”

With a finger, she traced the scalloped hem of her skirt over her thighs, saw his gaze dart in the direction of the movement. “They’re not getting any younger,” she persisted.

“They’re not old, either. Mom’s fifty-seven—”

“Fifty-eight,” she corrected.

“Which makes Dad sixty. They’re in good health. Right now, my patients need me a lot more than my parents need to hear about the weather in Oxford.”

Callie recalled the way Brenda made self-deprecating excuses for her son’s lack of contact, and her pride when she relayed whatever scant information he deigned to share. “I’m not talking about physical health. Or did you not have time to ‘read every word’ of my e-mails?”

“You mean that bunch of cryptic communications that took two thousand words to say Mom ‘isn’t herself’?”

Callie drew in a long, slow breath. When this conversation was over, she’d have qualified for sainthood on the grounds of a miracle of forbearance. “I know your time is valuable. But so is everyone’s.”

“Very true,” he said. “Arranging flowers, performing brain surgery—there’s only so much we can fit into our days.”

She nobly refrained from calling him on his arrogance, and pressed on. “But while you’re in Parkvale you won’t have those pressures. So maybe you could take time to find out why she’s so down.”

“If she is,” he said.

Callie didn’t rise to that. “You know it’s her birthday on the fifteenth, right?”

“Of course,” he said, too easily.

Callie telegraphed her disbelief.

He grinned, but he didn’t back down. “I’ll order a special bouquet from Fresher Flowers for the occasion.”

“You know what she’d like more than flowers?”

“Yes.”

Callie blinked. “You do?”

“You’re going to say half an hour of my time, or something else that makes me look mean.”

She bit back on a smile. “She’d love for you to take her shopping.”

“You mean, to choose a gift?”

Callie shrugged. “Not necessarily. Brenda always runs into at least thirty people she knows when she’s out shopping. She’d get to show you off.”

“I’m not a prize exhibit,” he muttered, irritated.

Callie folded her arms across her chest. “The limited sightings of you over the past several years convinced me you’re a rare species.”

“I may not have been in Parkvale, but I’m always only a phone call or a flight away.” His voice was tighter now.

“You mean in case of a medical emergency?”

“I didn’t mean for a shopping emergency.”

“Your folks aren’t sick, but I think your mother is close to her emotional breaking point.”

Jack paused. “That diagnosis seems a little extreme. If there’s anything seriously wrong, believe me, I’ll see it.” He switched into the right lane, ready to exit the interstate. “But, Callie…” he flashed her the smile she suspected was calculated to make her roll over to have her tummy tickled “…I really appreciate your concern, and I know Mom and Dad do, too.”

His crazy-patient voice was back.

THEY ARRIVED IN Germantown, an affluent part of Memphis, at seven, and pulled up outside a solid three-story Georgian-style house.

Callie shook herself out of her contemplation of Jack’s arrogant denial that she might have a better handle on his parents than he did. “What’s this guy’s name again?”

“Sam Magill. His wife is my friend Adam Carmichael’s stepmother.”

“Adam Carmichael, the TV network guy?”

He nodded. “His family owns Memphis Channel Eight—do you know him?”

“A few years back, a girl from Parkvale—Casey Greene, whose sister Karen is one of my best friends—conned her fiancé into a surprise wedding show on Channel Eight. The guy dumped her on air and she ended up marrying Adam Carmichael in a fake wedding. Only it turned out to be legit.”

“None of that makes the slightest sense.” When Jack said things like that, his voice held a hint of a British accent that in other circumstances Callie might have found appealing.

“Casey and Adam must be the ‘irregular marriage situation’ you were talking about,” she said.

He pulled the key from the ignition. “If Sam dealt with the mess you just described, our divorce will be a piece of cake.”

The tall, slim woman who opened the wide front door was in her late fifties and extremely stylish.

“I’m Eloise Magill. You must be Callie.” She gave Callie’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. “And you must be Jack.” Her tone was cool, as if whatever was wrong with their marriage had to be his fault. Callie decided she liked Eloise.

“Sam’s just finishing a phone call.” She led them into a living room where the décor was an eclectic mix of chunky masculine furniture and feminine fripperies. Leather couches flanked a pink-and-gray-striped love seat; a silk fan, beaded glass coasters and a copy of Vogue cluttered the solid wooden coffee table. Somehow, it worked.

Sam, who had eyebrows bushy enough to house a small colony of beetles, and punctuated his telephone conversation with a startling smoker’s cough, acknowledged them with a wave.

A moment later, he hung up. “Thanks for looking after my guests, darling.” He took Eloise’s hand for a moment, then reluctantly relinquished it. The way he looked at her, and the way she looked right back, suggested this couple would never need a divorce lawyer.

Callie put a few more inches between her and Jack. Sam shook hands with them, directed them to one of the two leather couches, and sat down opposite. Eloise left the room with a promise to bring coffee.

“Why don’t you two tell me your situation?” Sam unscrewed the cap of his pen. “Then we can work out how best to proceed.”

Jack relaxed into the couch. He liked the look of Sam, and his calm logic. Even better, Callie had gone unexpectedly quiet. For the first time since he’d landed back in the U.S.A., he felt as if he was making progress toward the purpose of this trip.

He outlined to Sam how and why they’d got married. Even keeping it to the bare bones, the story didn’t get any better with the telling. He had a sudden inkling why Diana, his ex-girlfriend, had been so shocked to learn the truth, and why the gossip had spread so mercilessly among his colleagues.

“And now you want a divorce,” Sam said mildly, as if the end to this charade wasn’t long overdue. He tapped his pen against his legal pad. “Normally I’d recommend a husband and wife seek separate representation.”

“It’s not a proper marriage,” Jack said. “We both want to end it, as soon as possible.” He glanced at Callie for corroboration, but she was staring down at her hands, her cheeks sucked in as if she might start carping on about his parents again if she opened her mouth the tiniest bit.

It was probably best she didn’t talk.

Sam flipped his pen between his fingers. “My first duty as your lawyer is to recommend that you attempt to resolve your differences through mediation.”

“We barely know each other. We don’t have differences. ” Jack discounted the disagreement they’d had in the car, which had been pretty tame. Beside him, Callie’s fingers twitched.

Sam nodded. “Okay, you’re waiving mediation. Next, you need to consider that under Tennessee law, the default position is an equitable division of the matrimonial property.”

Callie perked up. “Do neurosurgeons earn more than florists?” she asked brightly. “I mean, I know they’re a lot more important.”

Jack shot her a look, one that worked well to crush know-it-all medical residents. She was entirely uncrushed. Her blue eyes sparked the way they had the day he’d arrived in town. Ignore her.

“We’ve agreed we’ll each take out of the marriage what we brought into it,” he told the lawyer.

Sam raised his eyebrows at Callie, who sighed theatrically, then nodded. The lawyer pursed his lips, and Jack was pretty sure the man was stifling a smile.

So much for their truce. Jack gritted his teeth. He’d gone easy on Callie in the car when she’d hassled him about his parents. Big mistake. Now she thought she could mess him around. He shouldn’t have given in to that unexpected sense of guilt that he might have exploited her desperate situation all those years ago.

“I’ll prepare the paperwork you’ll both need to sign in order to waive your share of your spouse’s assets,” Sam said. “Now, have a look at this.” He held out a sheet of paper, which Callie took before Jack could. “It’s a list of the permissible grounds for divorce in Tennessee. You’ll need to choose one.”

Jack refused to crane his neck to see over Callie’s shoulder. He could wait.

She made a show of tapping her chin with a finger, apparently deep in contemplation, then pointed to an item high on the list. “I like this first one. ‘Either party is naturally impotent and incapable of procreation.’” She jerked her head in Jack’s direction and gave Sam a significant look.

Jack clenched his teeth, but by superhuman effort refrained from declaring to Sam that he was not impotent. Because on that subject, there was such a thing as protesting too much. Still, he couldn’t hold back a growl.

Callie patted his knee. “Sweetie, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

A muffled sound came from Sam.

Okay, Jack was going to throttle her. Not here in the lawyer’s house; that would be stupid. He’d do it after they left, somewhere near the airport, where he could jump on the next plane before they found her body. The prospect of such utter abandonment of his Hippocratic oath cheered him.

“You know,” Callie reflected, “I’m thinking ‘willful or malicious desertion or absence without a reasonable cause’ might be more appropriate.”

He looked down his nose at her. “I don’t think any judge will consider my commitment to saving children’s lives unreasonable.”

“Touché,” she said sadly, and read on. “‘Cruel and inhuman treatment,’” she murmured with interest. “Oh, wait, I guess they mean toward me, not your parents.”

Jack snatched the list from her and began reading. “Here we go,” he said, triumphant. “All I have to do is make an attempt on your life, ‘by poison or any other means—’ and we have guaranteed grounds for divorce.”

She put a hand to her throat, as if she’d sensed the modus operandi of her imminent demise. “Go ahead. Your parents will see more of you when you’re in jail than they do now.”

She was driving him nuts. Jack turned away, so he wouldn’t be tempted to respond. “Do we need to decide the grounds now?” he asked Sam. “What’s the time line on this thing? I know we have to wait until I’ve been here thirty days before we can file.”

Oh, heck. Callie dragged air into her suddenly constricted lungs. She’d known her lie would come out, but she’d rather it wasn’t right after she’d been goading Jack. Was there any chance Sam wouldn’t expose her?

The lawyer’s shaggy eyebrows shot up. She was dead in the water.

“That’s not right,” Sam said. “As long as you have grounds, which it seems you do on several counts, and as long as one of you has been resident in Marquette County the past six months—” he looked at Callie, who reluctantly nodded “—and you’ve lived apart for a continuous period of two or more years without cohabiting as man and wife during that period…” He took a breath as he finished the spiel, then sealed Callie’s fate. “You can file the papers tomorrow.” He spread his hands. “Your divorce will be through in sixty days.”

“You mean,” Jack said slowly. “I have to stay for sixty days from when we file?”

Sam shook his head. “You don’t need to stay—in fact, you don’t have to be here at all. Callie can file for the divorce.”

Callie sucked in her cheeks and tried to appear surprised.

But Dr. Megabrain, who more often than not talked to her as if she had a whole bunch of screws missing, didn’t consider for one second that she might have misunderstood the Tennessee Code.

He twisted on the couch. Anger darkened his eyes to gunmetal, and he aimed an accusing finger at her jugular. “You lied to me.”

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