Sweet Tibby Mack. Roz Fox Denny

only resting on pier blocks.”

      Joe shook his head. “The post office would still be too close to Cole’s property line for the county to issue him a building permit. We’ll have to brainstorm. Come on or we’ll be late. Let’s discuss it in the car.”

      Tibby shrank into the shadow of the doorway. How dared they assume they had the right to move the post office her grandmother had built! “No more sweet Tibby Mack,” she vowed, watching them leave. “I’ll find a dog, all right. A guard dog.”

      She was still in a foul mood when the man she blamed for the unrest in Yaqui Springs sauntered through her door a few moments later. Tibby finished cleaning up a mess of spilled sugar and crumbs at the coffee bar. Ignoring Cole, she ground beans for a fresh pot of coffee.

      “Mm, that smells good.” He came up behind her and sniffed over her shoulder. “Is it for your use only or do you sell that by the pound, as well?”

      Tibby turned and found herself at eye level with his chin and gently curved lips. Luckily for her he had his eyes closed and missed the start she gave when her knees caved. “I, uh, sell’a variety of specialty coffees. They’re on the far side of aisle four. This is vanilla bean. I stock almond and raspberry. Great after-dinner coffees. All decaffeinated. Most of the residents have high blood pressure, so they need to avoid things like caffeine. And situations that cause stress,” she emphasized.

      His eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying I’m causing them stress? Golf is one of the least stressful activities. It gets people outside in the fresh air. Cardiologists everywhere recommend golf as a method of reducing blood pressure, in case you haven’t heard.”

      “You’re a regular medical encyclopedia, O’Donnell.”

      He shrugged expansively. “I’m here to buy groceries, not engage in debate. I have a guest coming for the weekend who’s a fussy eater. Do you carry things like feta cheese, fresh basil and bulgur for making tabbouleh?”

      “Yes.” Tibby rolled her eyes. “A chef now. It must be nice to be a jack-of-all-trades.”

      He leaned a hip against the coffee bar and studied her through half-closed eyes. “Are you aware that the residents refer to you as sweet Tibby Mack?”

      Tibby released her breath and spun away. She’d been anything but sweet to Cole since he’d arrived. But when he stood’as close to her as he was now…“You said you came here to shop, O’Donnell. Why don’t you hop to it and quit harassing the management?”

      Cole tugged on one ear. Lowering his gaze, he racked his brain, trying to think of something he might have said or done to make her so prickly. In the end he decided the problem, whatever it was, lay with her. Since it was out of his control, he grabbed a cart and started down the aisle.

      Glad to be free of the tension stretching between them, Tibby puttered while Cole made his selections. She watered the hanging baskets of fuchsia and geraniums that brightened the dark wood walls. She snapped dry leaves off the pothos and trailing ivy that lent a homey feel to the coffee bar and small beauty shop. Yet she knew at all times exactly where Cole was.

      A few minutes later Tibby rang up Cole’s purchases and sent him on his way with one of her most professional smiles. Thankfully it was the last she saw of him all day.

      When the golfers popped in that afternoon, they weren’t as talkative as usual. Pete and Fred muttered that as far as the wildlife went, she was making mountains out of molehills. They reminded her there were rabbits on the greens at Bogey Wells.

      That night Tibby went to bed with a splitting headache.

      It hung on for the rest of the week. A steady stream of travelers kept her unusually busy. So busy, she barely spoke to any of the men who came for coffee every morning.

      During a lull that occurred on Saturday—the day Tibby finally decided business had slacked off enough for her to go to town—Cole dashed in. “I forgot to buy candles,” he said. “Do you carry the short fat kind? And I’ll need a bottle of good white wine.”

      Tibby directed him to the proper aisles. She didn’t want to serve him today and checked her watch for at least the twentieth time, waiting for Justine. She was eager to get on with her mission.

      Time dragged. No other customer came in to offer distraction. Cole walked up to the counter in that easy way of his that sent a whistle of awareness through Tibby’s midsection. Her best defense was to get mad at him and stay mad.

      Fortunately he provided the opportunity as he took the first item from his basket and placed it on the counter. “I asked around like you suggested. No one remembers my grandfather donating land for the post office.”

      “What?” Tibby stopped feeding prices into the cash register. She gripped a bottle of expensive coastal wine by the neck. “Who’d you ask, for pity’s sake?”

      Cole rubbed his jaw. “The group that headed out to play golf this morning. I met them on the road and we stopped to talk.”

      “You mean Joe Toliver, Pete Banks and Fred Feeny didn’t set you straight?”

      “They were among the people I spoke with, yes.”

      Tibby felt a stab of anger. Those men knew the truth. Why on earth wouldn’t they stand behind her? Had they forgotten what it was like driving forty miles to pick up mail? “I know the land was donated,” she said angrily. “So do they.”

      Cole tugged a folded paper from his back pocket and dropped it on the counter. “This is a rough layout of the golf course, clubhouse and pro shop. If the interest is what I predict, later I’ll add a restaurant. So you see, I need that property desperately.”

      “Need all you want. I wouldn’t start breaking ground if I were you unless you put the clubhouse somewhere else. You aren’t touching that post office, O’Donnell.”

      “Look, I pawed through most of Gramps’s files over the week. He has receipts of transactions dating back twenty years and not one shred of evidence that he gave you the land. Unless you show me proof, I plan to start clearing.”

      They were nose to nose, shouting, when Justine Banks scurried in. “Sorry I’m late, Tibby. We met at Winnie’s for coffee this morning. You know how she is when she climbs on her soapbox. Is something wrong? You two having a quarrel?”

      Tibby stuffed Cole’s groceries in a sack. “That’s putting it mildly. Instead of entertaining out-of-town visitors he should close up Yale’s house and return to Hollywood, where sneaky double-dealing is a way of life.”

      “Resorting to slander now, I see. I do have a witness.” Cole turned to Justine, and the older woman sort of puddled at his feet.

      Tibby shoved the sack into his arms. “I believe you were leaving?” she said with sarcastic sweetness.

      “Gladly. And don’t hold your breath waiting for me to darken your door again. I’d sooner drive the extra miles to shop in Brawley.”

      Justine’s head whipped from one to the other like a baby bird seeking a worm. “My,” she said as the door slammed on Cole’s heels, “it’s like Winnie said not five minutes ago. Our community cohesiveness is going to heck in a handbasket.”

      “It goes to show that the person who said one bad apple spoils the barrel knew what he was talking about.” Tibby glared at the door through which Cole had departed. “But don’t worry, Justine.” She patted the older woman’s arm. “Maybe later today I’ll have news to mend this rift once and for all.”

      Justine blinked owlishly behind her round glasses. “Yes, Winnie made that same comment. What time will you be back, dear?”

      “I hope by four. Help yourself to lunch and try some of that new raspberry-and-rosemary tea I bagged today. I think you’ll find it calming. You’ll need to make sandwiches for the lunch crowd. There are still two loaves of seven-grain bread and one of sourdough. Tomorrow I’ll bake again.”

      “You