204 Rosewood Lane. Debbie Macomber

hurried out front, prepared to greet her customer.

      “Welcome,” she said, then brightened when she saw who it was. “Jon, I was just thinking about you.” His photography had long been her favorite of all the art they sold. The gallery carried work in a variety of artistic media: oil and watercolor paintings, marble and bronze sculpture, porcelain figurines and one-of-a-kind pottery. Jon was the only photographer represented at the Harbor Street Gallery.

      His photographs were both black-and-white and color, and his subjects included landscapes and details of nature, like a close-up of some porous stone on a beach or the pattern of bark on a tree. Sometimes he focused on human elements, such as a weathered rowboat or a fisherman’s shack. He never used people in his compositions. Maryellen was impressed by the way he found simplicity in an apparently complex landscape, making the viewer aware of the underlying shapes and lines—and the way he revealed the complexity in small, simple details. This was an artist with true vision, a vision that made her look at things differently.

      It was through his work that she knew Jon. As she’d discovered, he wasn’t a man of many words, but his pictures spoke volumes. That was why she wanted to know him better. That, and no other reason. Even if she found his appearance downright compelling…

      Jon Bowman was tall and limber, easily six feet. His hair was long, often pulled away from his face and secured in a ponytail. He wasn’t a conventionally attractive man; his features were sharp, his nose too large for his narrow face, hawklike in its appearance. He dressed casually, usually in jeans and plaid shirts.

      He’d started bringing his work into the gallery three years ago—a few at a time, with long lapses in between. Maryellen had worked at the gallery for ten years and was well acquainted with most of the artists who lived in the area. She often socialized with them, but other than to discuss business, she’d rarely spoken to Jon.

      She found it odd that her favorite artist would resist her efforts at friendship.

      “I brought in some more photographs,” he said.

      “I was hoping you would. I’ve sold everything you brought me last June.

      That news produced a small grin. Jon’s smiles were as infrequent as his conversations.

      “People like your pictures.”

      Praise embarrassed him. Whenever customers had asked to meet him, he’d refused. He didn’t explain why, but she sensed that he felt the public’s focus should be on the art and not the artist.

      “I’ll get the photographs,” he said brusquely, disappearing out the back door.

      When he returned, he held an armful of framed photographs of varying sizes. He carried them to the back room, placing them on Maryellen’s work table.

      “Can I interest you in a cup of coffee?” she asked. She’d offered before and he’d always declined.

      “All right.”

      Maryellen was sure she’d misunderstood him. She told herself it was absurd to feel this elation that he’d finally agreed. She poured him a cup and gestured toward the sugar and cream. He shook his head.

      They sat on stools across from each other, both staring into their coffee. “Your work is gaining recognition,” she finally said.

      He ignored her remark. “You’re divorced?” he asked bluntly.

      The question caught Maryellen off guard. She’d certainly realized he wasn’t much for small talk, but this verged on rude. She decided to answer him, anyway —and then turn the subject back to him.

      “Thirteen years.” She hardly ever mentioned her marriage. She’d been young and immature, and had paid a high price for her mistake. As soon as the divorce was final, she’d reverted to her maiden name and chosen to put the experience behind her. “What about you?”

      Jon apparently had his own agenda because he answered her question with one of his own. “You don’t date much, though, do you?”

      “No. Do you?”

      “Some.”

      “Are you married?” She didn’t think he was.

      “No.”

      “Divorced?” she asked next.

      “No.”

      He certainly didn’t bother with sharing, nor did he feel obliged to offer much personal information in exchange for hers.

      “Why don’t you date?” he asked next.

      Maryellen shrugged, choosing a nonverbal reply instead of a lengthy explanation.

      Jon sipped his coffee. “Don’t you get asked?”

      “Oh, sure.” She preferred parties and other social events to individual dates. “Why the interest, all of a sudden? Would you like to ask me out?” she asked boldly. If he did, she just might be tempted. Then again, maybe not. Dark, mysterious men were dangerous, and she’d already learned her lesson.

      “What did he do to you?” Jon pressed.

      Maryellen got off the stool, uncomfortable with the way he continually parried her questions with his. Each question dug a little deeper, delving into territory she’d rather leave undisturbed.

      “Tell me something I don’t know about you,” she said, challenging him with a look.

      “I’m a chef.”

      “You mean you enjoy cooking?”

      “No, I’m a chef at André’s.”

      The elite seafood restaurant was on the Tacoma waterfront. “I…I didn’t know.”

      “Most people don’t. It’s how I pay the bills.”

      Kelly’s voice rang from inside the gallery. “Anybody here?”

      Her sister couldn’t have chosen a worse time to visit, and Maryellen glanced regretfully toward the showroom. “That’s my sister.”

      “I should be going.” Jon took a swallow of the cooled coffee, then put down the mug.

      “Don’t leave yet.” She reached out impulsively, touching his forearm. “I’m sure I’ll only be a moment.”

      “Come to André’s one night,” he said. “I’ll make you something special.”

      Maryellen wasn’t sure if he meant she should come alone or if she should bring a date. But it seemed inappropriate to ask. “I’ll do that,” she said as Kelly walked into the back room. Her sister stopped suddenly, her face filled with surprise and delight at finding Maryellen with a man.

      “I’m Jon Bowman,” Jon said into the awkward silence. “I’ll leave you to visit. Nice seeing you again, Maryellen.”

      “Bye,” she said, her feelings a mixture of surprise and regret. Anticipation, too, she admitted privately. And that was something she hadn’t felt in years.

      Kelly watched him go. As soon as Jon was out of earshot, she asked, “Was that anyone special?”

      “Just one of our artists,” Maryellen returned, not elaborating.

      Kelly claimed the stool recently vacated by Jon. “How’s Mom holding up?”

      “Better than I expected.” Making that first attorney’s appointment had been difficult, but her mother’s resolve had seen her through.

      “Dad’s coming back, you know,” Kelly said.

      Maryellen didn’t argue, although she’d long since abandoned hope that he would.

      “You don’t believe me, do you?” Kelly challenged.

      Maryellen had, in fact, given up. For whatever reason, their father had disappeared. When it came to men, she didn’t expect much,