The Redemption Of Matthew Quinn. Kathleen O'Brien

hello. Miss? Excuse me.” A man’s voice floated up to her from the driveway, which sloped away beside the terraced garden. “Sorry, but I have a delivery for Natalie Granville?”

      She maneuvered herself upright carefully, straddling the banister as if it were a marble horse. “I’m Natalie Granville,” she said politely. Darn, this position felt kind of awkward—the man was looking at her very strangely.

      And she couldn’t quite decide what to do with the Jack Daniel’s. She didn’t want the bottle to fall off and break. She hugged it to her side, but that didn’t seem very hospitable, so she held it out. “Want some?”

      The man—more like a boy, really—flushed. “No thanks,” he said quickly. He held out a very large, flat box. “I just need your signature for this.”

      Natalie stared at the package, which looked familiar. Not the sort of thing she received for the nursery business she ran from the greenhouse, though. Too flat. Too feminine, with its shiny white corners.

      Hmm. She frowned. Jack Daniel’s might taste wonderful, but it didn’t exactly help you to think clearly. Had she been expecting a delivery?

      “I— Can you sign? It’s for you. It’s from Apple Blossom Bridal.”

      Aw, shucks. Natalie’s shoulders sagged. The wedding dress.

      “I don’t want it,” she said, closing her eyes and waving the half-empty bottle vaguely. “Could you maybe just throw it away as you leave?”

      “Um…not really.” The kid sounded downright nervous now. “I’ll leave it here, okay?” He set the box on the banister, moving in slow motion, as if he had discovered it contained nitroglycerine. “Just right here.”

      Natalie sighed and had another swallow of Jack Daniel’s, which, taken straight like this, was muscular enough to etch its initials in her esophagus. She shivered, loving it.

      “Okay.” She wiped her mouth and smiled at him. “If you have to.”

      Tucking the bottle under her elbow, she reached over, signed his clipboard, and then began unwrapping the box.

      “It’s my wedding dress,” she said conversationally. “Or I guess it’s technically my non-wedding dress. Today is my non-wedding day, you see. I told them I didn’t need the dress anymore, but they wouldn’t give me my money back. Don’t you think that’s mean? I was only getting married in the first place because I needed money so badly, and now—”

      But the deliveryman was already gone. Natalie looked at the empty yard around her, the acres and acres of once-beautiful gardens, and sighed. He hadn’t even waited for a tip. Didn’t he know Granvilles always tipped beautifully? That was why they were constantly broke. Well, that and the gambling. And the women.

      And the house. Always the house. This crazy, crumbling, hungry monster of a house.

      She unfolded her gown and shook the creases out of the soft white cotton lace. It was an okay dress—not great. She’d bought the cheapest one in town, although they’d all been absurdly expensive. That was the problem with living in a community of millionaires. Price tags came in only three sizes: Big, Bigger and Downright Astronomical.

      She held the pearled bodice up against her chest, trying to imagine herself wearing it. She couldn’t.

      She climbed down off the banister and tried again, letting the layered skirt fall all the way to her ankles. She dipped and swayed, trying to capture the dreamy, princessy feeling she used to get as a kid, when she’d rummage through the attic trunks, pretending to be a damsel in distress. She had shuffled to the attic window, antique lace dragging behind her, and surveyed her flowering kingdom.

      In her ten-year-old imagination, she had always witnessed the galloping arrival of her handsome prince, her gallant knight, her brave cavalier. Or, her personal favorite, her Pair of Moors—a phrase she’d heard the grown-ups use, though she had no idea what it really meant. A few years later, when she’d learned what a “paramour” actually was, it had been a crushing disappointment.

      Still pressing the gown to her chest, she moved back to the balcony and gazed down over the ruined Summer House grounds, all the way down to where the mountain ledge overlooked the tiny kingdom of Firefly Glen.

      But no prince was fighting his thorny, perilous way up the mountain path. Nothing. Not so much as a speck on the horizon. Even the deliveryman’s truck had long since disappeared.

      She held out the wedding dress and scowled at it. It might be a five-hundred-dollar gown, but the darn thing didn’t possess five pennies’ worth of magic.

      “Nat, are you there?” The answering machine was at it again. It was Stu. He’d called three times already. “Want me to come over and take you out to lunch? I don’t want you lying around feeling sorry for yourself.”

      She stuck her tongue out at the machine, then knocked back another swig of Jack Daniel’s. How dare he? She was enjoying her afternoon alone, that was all. Granvilles didn’t feel sorry for themselves.

      So this would have been her wedding day. So what? She’d called it off two weeks ago. She’d told Bart Beswick to take his rough hands, his wet kisses and his big bank account and get lost. She was a Granville, and Granvilles didn’t sell themselves to the highest bidder.

      Bart had been surprised, but not heartbroken. He’d wanted her name and her house, and he’d been pretty sure she would count herself lucky to get his money in return.

      But he must have forgotten what exactly that grand old name he lusted after really meant. Granvilles chose freedom. Exhausted, overworked, penniless freedom. Granvilles might secretly hope that someday, somehow, the long-overdue prince would still find his way up the mountain, but they certainly didn’t stand around twiddling their thumbs, waiting for it to happen.

      “Feeling sorry for myself? Ha!” She slurred the s in “sorry” just a little, but no one could hear her. In a minute or two, she was going to go inside, drink some strong coffee and get back to peeling the mildewed wallpaper from the Blue Bedroom. She was going to see if anyone had answered her “Handyman Wanted” ad.

      She might even practice spackling, which was actually much harder than it looked.

      Yep, she was going to get busy. In a minute or two. Or three.

      But she sighed, dreading it. Her dress draped over her arm, she leaned her elbows on the pitted marble banister and stared down the long, empty slope of terraced gardens.

      And then, because she was a Granville, she forgot about going inside. Because she was a Granville, she kept staring, dreaming, seeing flowers where no flowers had bloomed in ten neglected years.

      And because she was a Granville, she closed her eyes. And as she drifted off, she could almost hear, over the birdsong and the breeze, the distant rumble of galloping hooves.

      MATTHEW QUINN peeled the perforated address strip off the “Handyman Wanted” sign and studied it carefully before putting it in his pocket.

      Summer House, it said in a frilly, but shaky, calligraphy— 717 Blue Pine Trail. And a telephone number.

      Summer House. Looking at the calligraphy, Matthew pictured the owner as an eighty-year-old, silver-haired widow who would make weak tea and cookies for the handyman, but would never invite him into the musty, cluttered twilight of her Victorian sanctum.

      Especially not if she knew he’d just been released from prison.

      She had tacked the notice to a community bulletin board outside Firefly Glen’s red brick Town Hall. The other notices on the board described a pure Norman Rockwell weekend: the Firefly High Astronomy Club stargazing seminar, the fly fishermen’s annual casting contest, the Firefly Girls’ Saturday car-and-boat wash, the Congregational Church chicken barbecue and white elephant sale.

      And, prominently displayed, a picture of a grinning Highland terrier that read simply, “Rob Roy ran away again. If you see him, call me. Theo.”

      Apparently