For Her Son's Love. Kathryn Springer

Table four had been Mr. Walrich, whose standing order of a piece of banana-cream pie and a cup of coffee garnered her a shiny fifty-cent piece as a tip. That left the boys at table five….

      “Maybe it’s back pay for all the times they didn’t leave you a tip,” Darcy joked.

      “If that were true, I’d be able to send Daniel to Harvard,” Miranda said, tucking the bill into her apron pocket. “But who am I to complain?”

      “I sure wouldn’t be complaining if Andrew Noble had written his phone number on the five-dollar bill he left me,” Darcy said, a blissful expression on her face.

      Miranda choked back a laugh, earning a pout from Darcy.

      “What? It happened in the novel I just finished. I thought it was very romantic.”

      “Men like Andrew Noble don’t work that way.”

      Darcy crossed her arms. “How do men like Andrew Noble work, oh, Wise One?”

      “Maybe he has his butler call your maid. Or maybe if you dropped one of your Birkenstocks on the sidewalk out front—”

      “You think?” Darcy’s eyes went wide until she realized Miranda was teasing her. “Just because you don’t believe in happily ever after doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for the rest of us, Miranda Jones!”

      She flounced away.

      Miranda knew Darcy’s offended tone was exaggerated but the words still stung.

      She didn’t believe in happily ever after.

      Not anymore.

      Andrew was lost in thought, alternately praying for Rachel, Eli and their unborn child, and wondering just how he was going to run the Foundation and keep his other…commitments.

      He rounded the corner where he’d parked the car and stumbled over something. Since the startled gasp came from somewhere near his kneecap, he knew it was a small something. Or rather, someone.

      “Sorry!” A boy about seven or eight years old sat on the concrete next to a bicycle. Or, more accurately, had been taken prisoner by it. The brown towel knotted around his shoulders had snagged in the chain.

      Andrew hid a smile and crouched down to help. He remembered using his mother’s towels to create a similar costume when he was young. “Got into some trouble here, hmm?”

      A face, almost completely swallowed up by a pair of lime-green swim goggles, peered up at him. “Yeah.”

      Andrew’s gaze skimmed over him, assessing the damage, but, in spite of the two skinned knees, the boy sounded more disgruntled than hurt.

      A teenage girl, weighted down by a colorful beach bag slung over her shoulder, sprinted up to them and knelt beside Andrew.

      “Are you okay, Daniel? I don’t know why you insisted on tying the towel on like that. You weren’t wearing those stupid goggles, were you? Where are your glasses? Your mom’s going to kill me—”

      Color rushed into the boy’s dirt-smudged cheeks.

      “There doesn’t seem to be too much damage,” Andrew interrupted, stepping in to save the boy further embarrassment. He lowered his voice. “One of the hazards of the job, right?”

      Daniel slanted a quick look at him but Andrew kept his expression serious, which earned a hesitant nod.

      The girl sighed dramatically as she watched Andrew work the corner of the towel out of the bicycle chain. “Look at that grease smear on your mom’s towel. That’s never going to come out. I’m going to the diner to get us some ice cream. And some Band-Aids. I’ll be right back. Don’t you dare move, Daniel.”

      She stalked away and Andrew caught a glimpse of shame lingering in the brown eyes behind the goggles.

      “Don’t be discouraged, Daniel,” he said quietly. “Not everyone gets it.”

      At Daniel’s age, he’d been partial to using the roof of the garden shed as a launch pad for flying lessons. No sense giving the kid any ideas, though.

      Daniel gifted him with a smile, revealing a gap where one of his front teeth should have been.

      “Let’s make sure you’re good to go.” Andrew checked the chain one more time.

      “Here comes Hallie. All she wants to do is talk on the phone. I think she’s one of the bad guys,” the boy confided in a whisper.

      Andrew’s lips twitched. “Don’t be too hard on her—she’s just a civilian. Your mom and dad wouldn’t hire one of them to take care of you during the day.”

      “It’s just me and Mom,” Daniel said matter-of-factly as he hopped back on his bike, pushing his feet against the concrete to propel himself forward. Probably to intercept the sitter, who marched toward them. “I gotta go.”

      It’s just me and Mom.

      Andrew could relate to that, too. Even though his parents had stayed together while Andrew was growing up, his father had never really been there. Not when it mattered. Pursuing the Noble legacy—making money—had crowded out everything else in Theodore Noble’s life.

      When Andrew was thirteen, his father had worked his way into a fatal heart attack, leaving behind business associates instead of friends…and a family who grieved his passing, not only because they were going to miss him but because they’d never really known him in the first place.

      When Andrew had turned eighteen, the terms of his father’s will had opened the valve to his trust fund.

      And he’d started a new legacy.

      Chapter Three

      “Are you sure you’re all right? Hallie said you took a pretty good spill.” Miranda’s fingers ran over her son’s bony shoulders, down his arms and then altered their course to tickle his ribs.

      “Mom!” Daniel giggled and squirmed away, almost falling from his perch on one of the stools at the counter.

      “I’m sure it’s nothing a sundae won’t cure. Isn’t that right, Danny Boy?” With a flourish, Isaac presented an old-fashioned soda glass filled with vanilla ice cream. A cloud of whipped cream and a maraschino cherry topped it off.

      “Can I have it, Mom?” Daniel’s eyes sparkled and Miranda nodded. She knew better than to protest. Both Isaac and Sandra loved to spoil Daniel and she let them, even if it was close to dinnertime.

      “Daniel, you keep Isaac company for a few minutes. I’ve got one more table to take care of and then we can go to the park.”

      “Okay.” Daniel dug in with his spoon, using it to tunnel toward the rich pocket of hot fudge visible at the bottom of the glass.

      Miranda fisted her hands in the pockets of her apron to stop them from shaking and went into the kitchen. Sandra stood at the island, deftly cutting up the colorful assortment of vegetables that went into her famous chicken pot pie. She smiled when she saw Miranda.

      “Did Dr. Tubman administer the correct dose of hot fudge?”

      Miranda felt tears sting the backs of her eyes and blinked them away before Sandra noticed.

      “Isaac knows that ice cream cures just about everything that ails a seven-year-old boy.”

      Sandra paused to study her. Miranda held her breath and met the older woman’s gaze straight on. Not that a show of confidence would fool Sandra. She had inner radar that immediately picked up any signs of distress and right now Miranda could tell it had moved to red alert.

      “Are you sure everything’s all right?” Sandra asked softly. “You look a little upset.”

      Miranda hesitated. She never wanted to burden her employer with her problems. Even if a picture of Sandra Lange appeared in the dictionary next to the word nurturer.

      Over