Willowleaf Lane. RaeAnne Thayne

girl gave her a hesitant smile that meant far more than her father’s well-practiced one. As she did, Charlotte became aware that the browsing couple that had been in her store for what felt like hours was in the middle of a whispered argument.

      Finally the husband stepped forward. “You’re Smoke Gregory, aren’t you?”

      Spence stiffened, his friendly smile melting away. “Yeah,” he said tersely.

      “I knew it. Didn’t I tell you I knew it?” he crowed to his wife. “And you said he wouldn’t dare show his face in public!”

      “Darwin, hush!” she said, her face turning scarlet.

      Spence had gone completely rigid, a hard, solid block of granite in the middle of her store.

      “Well, I just want you to know, we’re big baseball fans. We love the Pioneers. We live in Pendleton and drove to Portland several times just to watch you play.”

      “Did you?”

      “Yeah. You were a darn good ballplayer. Shame about everything else.”

      “Isn’t it?” he bit out.

      “And for what it’s worth,” the woman said, her face still red, “we don’t think you killed your wife.”

      Charlotte could only stare at the couple, appalled, as what little color was left in Peyton’s pale features seeped away like spring runoff.

      Fury sparked in Spence’s gaze and Charlotte shivered at the heat of it. He placed a big hand on Peyton’s shoulder, who went taut.

      “Good to know,” he said coldly.

      “Could we have your autograph?” the woman asked in a rush. “Our grandson followed your whole career. Had a poster on his bedroom wall and everything, right up until...” Her voice trailed off at something she saw in Spence’s dark features.

      After a moment, he seemed to take a deep breath. He lifted his hand from Peyton’s shoulder. To Charlotte’s astonishment, he managed to look almost calm.

      “Do you have anything for me to sign?”

      After an awkward pause, the husband of the couple grabbed one of Charlotte’s printed Sugar Rush napkins and thrust it at him, along with one of the pens she kept by the register in a pretty beaded canister she had made.

      Spence used the countertop to sign the napkin with a flourish. From her vantage point, she managed to read the message upside down. Generic and succinct. Best wishes. Spencer Gregory. Along with the number forty-two he had famously worn through more than a decade as a starting pitcher for the Portland Pioneers.

      The wife gripped the napkin and Charlotte realized they had dropped all their purchases atop a bin full of root beer barrels. They left the store without buying anything, leaving behind a vast, echoing silence in the store.

      Charlotte never expected she would have a moment’s sympathy for Spence Gregory, not after everything, but in light of that painful encounter, she couldn’t help a little tingle of dismay. Was it like that for him everywhere he went?

      “Are you ready to go?” he asked his daughter.

      She nodded and headed for the door.

      “Thanks again,” Spence said. He cocked his head, his gaze narrowed. “You look familiar. I have a feeling I’m going to be saying that a lot now I’m back in Hope’s Crossing. Did I know you when I lived here before?”

      For a horrifying moment, Charlotte didn’t know how to answer him. He didn’t recognize her. How could she tell him they’d sat across from each other a couple nights a week at her dad’s café for years? That she spent night after night helping him with his English homework?

      That he had once broken her heart into a million tiny glass shards?

      She had to say something, even though she knew perfectly well what his reaction would be.

      “Yes,” she muttered.

      He scrutinized her harder, obviously trying to place her. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid you’re going to have to help me out.”

      She didn’t have to do anything. Just for a moment, she wished one of her older brothers was around to politely encourage him to leave her store. They were just as big, just as tough as Spence Gregory. In fact, she thought Jamie might even be bigger.

      “Charlotte Caine,” she finally murmured.

      Just as she expected, his eyes widened with disbelief first and then astonishment.

      “Char... Of course. Wow. You look fantastic!”

      “Thanks,” she said, her voice clipped.

      “Really fantastic. I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

      “You didn’t.” She pointed out the obvious.

      “True enough.”

      “I have to admit, I’m surprised to see you. Somehow I hadn’t heard you were coming back.”

      “You mean nobody has started a petition yet to keep me away?” He said the words in a joking tone but both of them knew it wasn’t far from the truth.

      “Not that I’ve signed yet.”

      Though his mouth quirked up with amusement at her pointed reply, she thought she saw just a hint of bleakness in his gaze. Again, she felt that flutter of unexpected sympathy.

      “Harry Lange brought me in to be the director of the new recreation center in town,” he answered. “I’m starting tomorrow.”

      Of course. She should have known Harry Lange was somehow involved. The town’s richest citizen didn’t seem happy unless he was stirring up trouble somewhere. Still, this seemed a bold move, even for him. Why would he select a man for the job who had, by the skin of his teeth, just barely avoided going to prison for supplying steroids and prescription drugs to his teammates? And whose wife died under mysterious circumstances the very day those charges were thrown out?

      “I suppose getting engaged at seventy years old can make a man lose a few brain cells,” she answered.

      The words tasted ugly on her tongue and she wanted to call them back. Usually she liked to give people the benefit of the doubt, but she just didn’t have it in her to be objective when it came to Spence Gregory.

      His mouth tightened and he looked almost hurt, though she knew that couldn’t be true. What did he care if she welcomed him with somewhat less-than-open arms?

      “Apparently,” he murmured. “Yet here I am. For the next six months, anyway. It’s a temporary position.”

      That was something, anyway. She could endure anything for six months, even having him back in the same zip code.

      “Let’s go, Peyton.”

      “Okay.”

      Peyton looked subdued instead of angry now and Charlotte directed her sympathy where it rightfully belonged—to a young girl who had lost her mother far too young and spent her days under the cloud of her father’s scandal.

      Having to live with the man many considered responsible for her mother’s death couldn’t be an easy situation for a young girl.

      She gave her a warm smile. “See you around, Peyton. It was really nice to meet you. Enjoy the fudge.”

      “I’m sure I will,” she mumbled. She pushed open the door and walked out into the summer afternoon.

      Spence hesitated, looking as if he wanted to say something else, but he finally lifted a hand in a wave and followed his daughter.

      After the door closed behind them, Charlotte pressed a hand to her stomach, fighting the urge to rush over and flip the sign to Closed, lock the door and sag against the counter.

      She liked to think she was a pretty good person