Wild about Harry. Linda Lael Miller

reached out to take her hand. “Listen, Amy, what you need is a vacation. You’re under a lot of stress and you haven’t resolved your conflicts over Tyler’s death. Park the kids with Tyler’s parents and go somewhere where the sun’s shining. Sunbathe, spend money with reckless abandon, live a little.”

      Amy recalled briefly that she’d always wanted to visit Australia, then pushed the thought from her mind. A trip like that wouldn’t be much fun all by herself. “I have work to do,” she hedged.

      “Right,” Debbie answered. “You really need the money, don’t you? Tyler had a whopping insurance policy, and then there was the trust fund from your grandmother. Add to that the pile you’ve made on your own with this real estate thing—”

      “All right,” Amy interrupted. “You’re right. I’m lucky, I have plenty of money. But work fills more than just financial needs, you know.”

      Debbie’s look was wryly indulgent, and she didn’t speak at all. She just tapped the be-ringed fingers of her right hand against the upper part of her left arm, waiting for Amy to dig herself in deeper.

      “Listen,” Amy whispered hoarsely, not wanting diners at the neighboring tables to overhear, “I know what you’re really saying, okay? I’m young. I’m healthy. I should be…having sex with some guy. Well, in case you haven’t noticed, the smart money is on celibacy these days!”

      “I’m not telling you to go out and seduce the first man you meet, Amy,” Debbie said frankly, making no apparent effort to moderate her tone. “What I’m really saying is that you need to stop mourning Tyler and get on with your life.”

      Amy snatched up her check, reached for her purse and pushed back her chair. “Thanks,” she snapped, hot color pooling in her cheeks. “You’ve been a real help!”

      “Amy…”

      “I have a meeting,” Amy broke in. And then she walked away from the table without even looking back.

      Debbie caught up to her at the cash register. “My brother has a condo at Lake Tahoe,” she persisted gently. “You could go there for a few days and just walk along the shore and look at the trees and stuff. You could visit the house they used in Bonanza.”

      Despite her nervous and irritable mood, Amy had to smile. “You make it sound like a pilgrimage,” she replied, picking up her credit card receipt and placing it neatly in a pocket of her brown leather purse. “Shall I burn candles and say, ‘Spirits of Hoss, Adam and Little Joe, show me the way’?”

      Now it was Debbie who laughed. “Your original hypothesis was correct, Ryan. You are indeed crazy.”

      It was an uncommonly sunny day, even for late June, and the sidewalks were crowded with tourists. Amy spoke softly, “I’m sorry, Deb. I was really a witch in there.”

      Debbie grinned. “True, but being a friend means knowing somebody’s faults and liking them anyway. And to show you I do have some confidence in your reasoning processes, expect my cousin Max over tonight.” She paused to think a moment, then her pretty face was bright with inspiration. “Max will wear coveralls and pretend to be fixing the dishwasher or something. That way, there’ll be a man in the house, in case this Griffith guy really is an ax murderer, but Mr. Australia will never guess you were nervous about having him over.”

      Amy wasn’t crazy about the idea, but she had neither the time nor the energy to try to talk Debbie out of it. She had an important meeting scheduled and, after that, some shopping to do at the Pike Place Market.

      “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Amy promised, as the two women went in their separate directions.

      Because she didn’t know whether to go with elegant or simple and typically American, Amy settled on a combination of the two and bought fresh salmon steaks to be seasoned, wrapped in foil and cooked on the backyard barbecue. She made a potato salad as well, and set out chocolate éclairs from an upscale bakery for dessert.

      She was setting the picnic table with good silver when a jolting sensation in the pit of her stomach alerted her to the fact that she wasn’t alone.

      Amy looked up, expecting to see Debbie’s cousin Max or perhaps even Tyler. Instead, she found herself tumbling end over end into the bluest pair of eyes she’d ever seen.

      “Hello,” the visitor said.

      Oliver, who had apparently escorted their guest from the front door, was clearly excited. “He sounds just like Crocodile Dundee when he talks, doesn’t he, Mom?” he crowed.

      The dark-haired man was incredibly handsome—Amy recalled seeing his picture once or twice—and he smiled down at Oliver with quiet warmth. “We’re mates, me and Mick Dundee,” he said in a very thick and rhythmic down-under accent.

      “Wow!” Oliver shouted.

      The visitor chuckled and ruffled the boy’s hair. Then he noticed Ashley, who was standing shyly nearby, holding her beloved cat and looking up at the company with wide eyes.

      “My name is Ashley Ryan,” she said solemnly. “And this is my cat, Rumpel. That’s short for Rumpelteazer.”

      Amy was about to intercede—after all, this man hadn’t even had a chance to introduce himself yet—but before she could, he reached out and patted Rumpel’s soft, striped head.

      “Ah,” he said wisely. “This must be a Jellicle cat, then.”

      Ashley’s answering smile was sudden and so bright as to be blinding. She’d named Rumpel for one of the characters in the musical Cats: Tyler had taken her to see the show at Seattle’s Paramount Theater several months before his death. Ever since, the play had served as a sort of connection between Ashley and the father she had loved so much.

      “Harry Griffith,” the man said, solemnly offering his hand to Ashley in greeting. He even bowed, ever so slightly, and his mouth quirked at one corner as he gave Amy a quick, conspiratorial glance. “I’m very glad to meet you, Ashley Ryan.”

      Amy felt herself spinning inwardly, off balance, like a washing machine with all the laundry wadded up on one side of the tub. She reached out, resting one hand against the edge of the picnic table.

      Harry’s indigo eyes came back to her face, and she thought she saw tender amusement in their depths. He wore his expensive clothes with an air only a rich and accomplished man could have managed, and Amy concluded that he was used to getting reactions from the woman he encountered.

      It annoyed her, and her voice was a little brisk when she said, “Hello, Mr. Griffith.”

      His elegant mouth curved slightly, and the ink-blue eyes danced. “I’m very glad to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Ryan. But since Tyler was one of my best friends, I’d be more comfortable having you call me Harry.”

      “Harry.” The name came out of Amy’s mouth sounding like primitive woman’s first attempt at speech. “My name is Amy.”

      “I know,” Harry answered, and, oddly, his voice affected Amy like a double dose of hot-buttered rum, finding its way into her veins and coursing through her system. Leaving her dizzy.

      “S-sit down,” Amy said, gesturing toward the picnic table.

      “I’d like that,” Harry replied. “But first I’d better tell you that there’s a man in coveralls out front, ringing your doorbell.”

      Debbie’s cousin Max, no doubt. Although she knew intuitively that she wouldn’t need protection from a make-believe dishwasher repairman, Amy was relieved to have something to do besides standing there feeling as if she were about to topple over the edge of a precipice.

      “Please,” Amy said. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.” As she hurried into the house, she couldn’t help remembering what Tyler had said, that she was meant to marry Harry Griffith and have two children by him. She was glad no one else could possibly know about the quicksilver, heated fantasies that idea had produced.