The Redemption Of Matthew Quinn. Kathleen O'Brien

sheriff’s office, hoping Harry was out on call. He was such a stickler about things like double parking. And she couldn’t afford another ticket. She hadn’t paid her last two yet.

      Theodosia Burke, the seventy-four-year-old tyrannical owner of the café, must have been watching for Natalie’s car. Within a very few seconds, the wiry little woman had joined Natalie at the back of the tiny Honda Civic, where the hatch had been lifted to reveal six lush rabbit’s foot ferns in hanging baskets.

      Though grateful for the help, Natalie was surprised that Theo had been willing to leave her customers. She ran her little diner like a five-star gourmet restaurant.

      “Good morning,” Theo screamed.

      The words echoed in Natalie’s brain like thunder. She tried not to wince, but she couldn’t help putting a protective hand to her forehead to try to keep her brain from exploding.

      “Morning,” she whispered with her eyes shut.

      “Well, I’ll be darned.” Theo paused, a hanging basket in each hand. “It’s true, isn’t it? I thought that idiot Leith was lying. What’s the matter with you, girl? Don’t you know why Granvilles don’t drink? They can’t hold their liquor worth squat.”

      Natalie tried to smile, but she had the feeling it looked more like a grimace. “Yes, ma’am,” she said meekly. “I can confirm that.”

      “Idiot young people,” Theo complained. “Always have to learn everything the hard way.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” Natalie wasn’t up to arguing. The sun was beating down on her, and she’d begun to perspire, which, besides being quite disagreeable, made her feel a little sick.

      Theo chuckled thoughtfully. “Stu told me about the wedding dress. Sure wish I could have seen that.”

      Natalie didn’t join in the chuckle, so Theo finally subsided. “I guess yesterday was a little rough, huh? I hope you weren’t feeling too sorry for yourself. That never did anyone a bit of good, you know.”

      Natalie started to protest that Granvilles didn’t indulge in self-pity, but it wasn’t strictly true. She was feeling fairly darn sorry for herself this morning. But not over Bart Beswick and the non-wedding day.

      “Darn it,” she began rather vehemently. But that was a mistake. Her head ringing, she took a deep breath and started over in a fierce whisper. “Why does everyone keep forgetting I was the one who called off this wedding? They all treat me like some pitiful jilted bride who is half dying of a broken heart.”

      Theo laughed out loud. “They don’t think you’re pitiful, girl. They think you’re crazy. You just passed up the chance to marry about twenty million bucks. Which, as we all know, you could definitely use.”

      “But I didn’t love him. And he didn’t love me, not really.”

      “Yeah, I know. But most of the folks around here don’t see what love’s got to do with twenty million dollars.”

      Natalie sighed and gathered two baskets in each hand, shoving the hatchback shut with her elbow.

      “Well, if they don’t know, I can’t explain it to them.” She nodded toward the café. “Let’s get these inside. Your customers are probably wondering where you are.”

      When she climbed the first step, though, she realized that Theo was lagging behind. “Come on, Theo.” Her sunglasses were crawling down on her nose. She tilted her head back, trying to make them slide into place. She couldn’t stand the nuclear glare of the sun. “These plants are kind of heavy, you know.”

      “I know. But before we go in, I probably should tell you—”

      “What?”

      “We’ve got a new customer. New in town, I mean. Good-looking guy. He’s in there now.”

      Natalie groaned. Theo was the Glen’s most energetic matchmaker. “Theo, I’m not in the market for a new man yet. Especially not today. Look at me. My jeans are dirty, my head is splitting, and I’m about one wrong move from either puking or fainting. I don’t care how handsome he is. Please, please, please don’t introduce me to him.”

      Theo looked strangely tongue-tied—a first for the crusty old woman. She fiddled with the ferns, untangling a couple of soft fronds, not looking at Natalie.

      “I don’t think I have to,” she said. “I think you’ve already met him.”

      “I have?” Natalie glanced toward the glossy red door, which was flanked by tubs full of bright yellow marigolds supplied by Natalie’s own nursery. “When?”

      Theo looked up. “Well…tell me, girl. How much do you actually remember about yesterday?”

      “I—” Natalie started. “I remember everything,” she whispered.

      “Everything?”

      “Every embarrassing minute of it. Up to and including—” She swallowed. “Oh, no.”

      Theo nodded sympathetically. “Oh, yes. Up to and including the handsome Matthew Quinn.”

      TEN MINUTES LATER, Natalie was still trying to calm herself down with a mental barrage of reassurances.

      It wasn’t really such a disaster, was it? Actually, this made her day a whole lot easier. She had planned to try to track Matthew Quinn down sometime this afternoon anyhow.

      It was just that she had hoped to wait a few hours, until her eyes weren’t quite so bloodshot. She had wanted one more shower, to banish any lingering whiff of stale liquor…or worse.

      She had planned to put on her navy-blue suit, and panty hose, and maybe even makeup. She had intended to tightly French-braid her unruly hair. She had desperately wanted to look professional, sober and sane—well, as sane as any Granville ever could.

      Instead, she was going to have to meet him like this. In her working jeans, with her head made of glass and her stomach made of Slinky springs.

      Oh heck. Maybe it was for the best. This was how she really looked. If she couldn’t persuade Matthew Quinn to help her without the aid of a suit and panty hose, maybe he wasn’t the perfect man after all.

      He was sitting in the back, reading the newspaper. Probably looking at the classified ads, she thought. Hunting for a job, no doubt, now that he’d decided he didn’t want the one she was offering.

      She continued hanging the ferns on the hooks above the front windows. She tried not to look at him too much—it would be bad for her concentration. But she was relieved to see that he looked the same, even now that she wasn’t viewing him through the rosy fumes of an entire bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

      He was very tall, well over six feet. Maybe a touch too thin, as if no one fed him right, but still pleasantly powerful, especially those broad, squared-off shoulders.

      Healthy, thick brown hair, with a touch of wave that he didn’t bother to subdue. She’d be willing to bet he didn’t own a single can of mousse or hair spray. Call her old fashioned, but she hated a guy who used more hair products than she did. Which, in her case, amounted to one generic brand of combination shampoo and conditioner and a brush. Serious vanity required more time—and more money—than she could spare.

      She couldn’t see his eyes from here. But she remembered them. Hazel eyes, with dark, thick lashes. Gorgeous eyes, but more than that. Smart eyes. And best of all, kind eyes.

      She didn’t pay much attention to men’s clothes—or women’s either, for that matter—but she sensed that he hadn’t spent a lot of money on his jeans and plain white cotton shirt. Some of the pinup boys around here could take lessons. They spent obscene amounts on their designer outfits, and they didn’t look half as good as Matthew Quinn.

      Of course he had the advantage of being naturally sexy as all get-out. She had dreamed about him off and on last night, and, with the whiskey pretty much acting like chloroform on her inhibitions,