The Groom Came Back. Abby Gaines

fallen silent.

      It must be her turn to interfere in his life. Of course, she’d be more tactful than he was.

      “A career like yours must make it hard to find time for meaningful relationships.”

      Jack’s eyes narrowed; he wasn’t buying it. “I shouldn’t have stuck my nose into your love life, and I’m sorry.”

      “I’m talking about your parents.”

      He slowed the car as the traffic grew heavier. They were near Memphis now. “I admit I get busy, but I keep in regular contact.”

      Was he deluded or lying? Callie decided not to use the word neglect, because that sounded negative. Ditto for abandon, selfish and uncaring. Where was the guy who’d squeezed her arm in comfort when she’d developed a bad case of shivers after their wedding? Who’d laughed out loud when she’d blurted an ancient Doctor, Doctor joke to lighten the moment? His kindness had convinced her everything would be okay. As okay as it could be.

      Stick with the facts, the way a doctor would. “When you called to say you were coming home, they hadn’t heard from you in two months—that was just a quick e-mail—and before that it was a five-minute phone call three months earlier.”

      An ominous silence filled the car. “Did Mom complain to you?”

      “She would never criticize you.”

      “Maybe you should take a leaf out of her book.” The reasonable words had an acid edge. “Because if she’s happy…”

      With a finger, she traced the scalloped hem of her skirt over her thighs, saw his gaze dart in the direction of the movement. “They’re not getting any younger,” she persisted.

      “They’re not old, either. Mom’s fifty-seven—”

      “Fifty-eight,” she corrected.

      “Which makes Dad sixty. They’re in good health. Right now, my patients need me a lot more than my parents need to hear about the weather in Oxford.”

      Callie recalled the way Brenda made self-deprecating excuses for her son’s lack of contact, and her pride when she relayed whatever scant information he deigned to share. “I’m not talking about physical health. Or did you not have time to ‘read every word’ of my e-mails?”

      “You mean that bunch of cryptic communications that took two thousand words to say Mom ‘isn’t herself’?”

      Callie drew in a long, slow breath. When this conversation was over, she’d have qualified for sainthood on the grounds of a miracle of forbearance. “I know your time is valuable. But so is everyone’s.”

      “Very true,” he said. “Arranging flowers, performing brain surgery—there’s only so much we can fit into our days.”

      She nobly refrained from calling him on his arrogance, and pressed on. “But while you’re in Parkvale you won’t have those pressures. So maybe you could take time to find out why she’s so down.”

      “If she is,” he said.

      Callie didn’t rise to that. “You know it’s her birthday on the fifteenth, right?”

      “Of course,” he said, too easily.

      Callie telegraphed her disbelief.

      He grinned, but he didn’t back down. “I’ll order a special bouquet from Fresher Flowers for the occasion.”

      “You know what she’d like more than flowers?”

      “Yes.”

      Callie blinked. “You do?”

      “You’re going to say half an hour of my time, or something else that makes me look mean.”

      She bit back on a smile. “She’d love for you to take her shopping.”

      “You mean, to choose a gift?”

      Callie shrugged. “Not necessarily. Brenda always runs into at least thirty people she knows when she’s out shopping. She’d get to show you off.”

      “I’m not a prize exhibit,” he muttered, irritated.

      Callie folded her arms across her chest. “The limited sightings of you over the past several years convinced me you’re a rare species.”

      “I may not have been in Parkvale, but I’m always only a phone call or a flight away.” His voice was tighter now.

      “You mean in case of a medical emergency?”

      “I didn’t mean for a shopping emergency.”

      “Your folks aren’t sick, but I think your mother is close to her emotional breaking point.”

      Jack paused. “That diagnosis seems a little extreme. If there’s anything seriously wrong, believe me, I’ll see it.” He switched into the right lane, ready to exit the interstate. “But, Callie…” he flashed her the smile she suspected was calculated to make her roll over to have her tummy tickled “…I really appreciate your concern, and I know Mom and Dad do, too.”

      His crazy-patient voice was back.

      THEY ARRIVED IN Germantown, an affluent part of Memphis, at seven, and pulled up outside a solid three-story Georgian-style house.

      Callie shook herself out of her contemplation of Jack’s arrogant denial that she might have a better handle on his parents than he did. “What’s this guy’s name again?”

      “Sam Magill. His wife is my friend Adam Carmichael’s stepmother.”

      “Adam Carmichael, the TV network guy?”

      He nodded. “His family owns Memphis Channel Eight—do you know him?”

      “A few years back, a girl from Parkvale—Casey Greene, whose sister Karen is one of my best friends—conned her fiancé into a surprise wedding show on Channel Eight. The guy dumped her on air and she ended up marrying Adam Carmichael in a fake wedding. Only it turned out to be legit.”

      “None of that makes the slightest sense.” When Jack said things like that, his voice held a hint of a British accent that in other circumstances Callie might have found appealing.

      “Casey and Adam must be the ‘irregular marriage situation’ you were talking about,” she said.

      He pulled the key from the ignition. “If Sam dealt with the mess you just described, our divorce will be a piece of cake.”

      The tall, slim woman who opened the wide front door was in her late fifties and extremely stylish.

      “I’m Eloise Magill. You must be Callie.” She gave Callie’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. “And you must be Jack.” Her tone was cool, as if whatever was wrong with their marriage had to be his fault. Callie decided she liked Eloise.

      “Sam’s just finishing a phone call.” She led them into a living room where the décor was an eclectic mix of chunky masculine furniture and feminine fripperies. Leather couches flanked a pink-and-gray-striped love seat; a silk fan, beaded glass coasters and a copy of Vogue cluttered the solid wooden coffee table. Somehow, it worked.

      Sam, who had eyebrows bushy enough to house a small colony of beetles, and punctuated his telephone conversation with a startling smoker’s cough, acknowledged them with a wave.

      A moment later, he hung up. “Thanks for looking after my guests, darling.” He took Eloise’s hand for a moment, then reluctantly relinquished it. The way he looked at her, and the way she looked right back, suggested this couple would never need a divorce lawyer.

      Callie put a few more inches between her and Jack. Sam shook hands with them, directed them to one of the two leather couches, and sat down opposite. Eloise left the room with a promise to bring coffee.

      “Why don’t you two tell me