A New Hope. Robyn Carr

with. There were a few pictures Grace wanted for this house, but the rest of her mother’s art was going to a fine-art museum on long-term loan—it would be displayed as The Banks Collection. With the help of the now part-time housekeeper, some things were being packed and shipped to Thunder Point—just a few treasured pieces of furniture, some dishes, kitchenware, her mother’s precious bedroom rug, a valuable Aubusson. Then there would be an estate sale—the furs and most of the jewelry would be included. Grace would have to make a couple of quick trips to look through things—there were undoubtedly photo albums, books, mementos and keepsakes that should be preserved.

      Virginia was looking for a roomy flat in the city where she could live and work until the estate was settled. Then Grace just might ask her if she wanted to continue to manage the estate after Winnie was gone.

      Meanwhile, that handsome history teacher on the deck was trying to get a binding pre-nup. He wasn’t looking for half, he was looking for nothing. He never wanted it even suggested that he was interested in Grace’s legacy. That would be the money she would inherit because as of now she had a flower shop and about a year’s income in the bank, cautiously invested. Troy had been intimidated by Winnie’s house and furnishings. If he ever saw the actual bottom line, the net worth, he might stroke out.

      Oh, they were going to make interesting neighbors. A teacher and flower shop owner, now expecting. A diva with ALS who would probably sit on the deck in a wheelchair wearing furs and diamonds. Full-time nursing help. And a little Russian coach who liked raisins in his wodka.

      “Troy!” she called. “I think I’m going to do a little painting in the loft.”

      He straightened and pulled off his cap. “You paint nothing! There are fumes. You can sweep. Or go arrange flowers. Or call your mother and tell her how helpful I am.”

      “She already likes you more than she likes me,” she muttered.

      “As it should be,” he said.

      “Wow. Good ears!”

      “I’m a high school teacher! I have to hear everything!” he shouted.

      “And so do I,” Spencer yelled from the bottom step.

      * * *

      Matt Lacoumette had one of those grueling weeks where he had to be everywhere at once. There was fertilizing to do in the orchard—the flowers were giving way to buds of fruit and it was a delicate time. Some of George’s ewes had lambed but there were some late breeders ready now. He liked to shear the ewes to make their lambing easier, and Matt helped with that. Then they liked to get the ewes delivered so they’d be ready to breed by fall. Everything happened in spring and fall, over months—the planting, the harvesting, the pears, the grapes, the lambing, the breeding. And things were not going to calm down anytime soon—there was more shearing to be done after lambing so the sheep could grow nice coats over summer. On top of that, he had to teach a couple of classes before the end of term.

      If all that wasn’t enough, he had to deal with Lucy, who kept calling him. Despite the fact that he’d been clear he was not in the market for a girlfriend, Lucy, like so many women, thought he’d change his mind. So she cried and he had to do his best to assure her there was nothing at all wrong with her—she was lovely and smart and sexy. It was him—he was not going to be anyone’s boyfriend. It was brutal.

      And then, after leaving his last class of the week, he left the building to find Natalie leaning against his truck. She was sporting yet another hair color and style—this time it was jet black. The last time he’d seen her it was brown with red highlights. When they were together he’d gotten the biggest kick out of her change in looks, every variation beautiful. There it was again—he was feeling both lust and rage.

      “What is it, Nat?” he asked.

      “I thought maybe we could have a cup of coffee,” she said.

      “Because...?”

      “Because having you hate me is killing me! Please, Matt!”

      He took a breath. “I don’t hate you,” he said patiently. It was a lie, he really did hate her. The problem was that he was also still drawn to her. He could love her if he’d just relax and let himself, but he’d be damned if he’d even entertain that notion. “We’re not having coffee. We’re not trying again or patching things up or being good friends. We thought we felt the same way about things and it turned out we felt the opposite way about important things. We made a mistake, Natalie. I have to go now. It’s been a long week.”

      She didn’t budge. “And you have to get to bed!”

      He ground his teeth. “I’ll call campus security,” he threatened. “And I’ll tell Dr. Weymouth I can’t give any more classes because his department secretary is harassing me.”

      “You wouldn’t do that.”

      “I would. I should. Now get out of here and please, no more of this.”

      “But when are you going to forgive me?” she said, crocodile tears running down her cheeks.

      “There’s something I just can’t forgive. Everything else is a distant memory, but that one thing—”

      “God, who knew you were so Catholic!”

      He clenched his hands into fists. They’d been over this, too. It wasn’t religious or political. It was his personal ethic about marriage, their marriage in particular, about how marriage had to work. There had to be give and take, they had to talk about deeply personal issues, they had to find a way to compromise. There had to be trust. They couldn’t lie to each other. They failed at marriage and it had nothing to do with his religion. As far as he knew every religion shared similar if not identical ethics.

      He took out his cell phone.

      “What are you doing?” she asked.

      “Calling campus security. Then Dr. Weymouth...”

      “Ugh!” she grunted, moving out of his way. Then she stomped back toward the building in her high heels with ankle straps, her short skirt and long legs more than distracting.

      He grimaced. He should probably quit this gig anyway. He sure didn’t do it for the money. Most months of the year he could slip it into his schedule easily but spring and fall especially, it was a real inconvenience. It was just that he liked the students. There were only a few who took these particular classes to check off a box or try to get by with an easy class. Most of them were either premed or heading into agriculture or environmental science. They asked stimulating questions, created interesting dialogue and arguments, gave him something to think about. They were sharp.

      He thought about going out for the evening or back to his apartment. Instead, he went to the farm even though he’d been there all morning. The nice thing about the family home, he didn’t need a reservation. The door was never locked; there was no possibility his parents wouldn’t be home. If they had plans, somewhere to go, he’d hear about it weeks in advance.

      He walked in, found his mother in the kitchen and gave her a kiss. She acted like she barely had time for the kiss. “Coffee? Wine?”

      He looked at his watch. “Wine, thank you. Rioja. The red. Do you have a full table tonight?”

      “George, Ginny, their families. I have no trouble squeezing in one more.”

      “Thanks. I’m starving.”

      “And, as you can plainly see, I am cooking. I’ll have you some tapas in a minute.” She put a glass of wine in front of him. “You usually move in and out of this house without a word, unless it’s business. Tonight is different. You’re friendly.”

      He laughed. His parents could really read their kids. Even as adults! “I wanted to speak to Papa but you’ll do. I want to give up that apartment—it’s too much trouble. But I don’t want to live in the house. What I’d like to do is build on Lacoumette land. If there’s a space that can be allotted to me for a house.”

      Her