But Clate touched her shoulder, gently, and he said her name in that rasping, sexy drawl, and it was all over. She fell against him, burying her face in his chest as the tears came, at last. He settled both arms around her, and he held her close, saying nothing. She sobbed, aware of his warmth, his strong body, his patience, even as she cried for her house, for herself, for an aunt who meant everything to her and whom she might be losing. Clate didn't give her any platitudes, didn't shush her, just held her.
Finally, she raised her head and brushed back her tears with her wrists and gave a small, phony laugh. "God, crying on your shoulder. Anybody's shoulder. That's not my style, you know."
"I know."
"Thanks."
He smiled. "You're welcome."
"And thanks for not trying to dry my tears for me. I hate it when men do that. None have ever done it with me, of course, but you know—in the movies, in books. It always strikes me as so—I don't know, patronizing. I'd rather dry my own damned tears."
"I think it's supposed to be romantic."
"It's not."
"To you self-sufficient Yankee types, probably not."
She grinned at him, already feeling better. "And kissing a woman's tears—yuck. That's even worse. I mean, you don't see women kissing men's tears, do you?" She eyed him. "And I'm not repressed."
"No, you're embarrassed over crying."
"I am not. Crying's a healthy response to—"
"Of course it is. But crying's for other people, not for Piper Macintosh. No, she's supposed to do everything, handle everything, maintain that stiff upper lip, especially over something as measly as a chimney fire and an aunt whose eccentricities may be getting the better of her. She doesn't break down and cry."
"Oh, I see. And you would?"
"I haven't cried since I was sixteen."
She narrowed her eyes on him, aware that this conversation suddenly wasn't about her. He'd just opened a window to his soul. "What happened when you were sixteen?"
"My mother died. She was thirty-two. I buried her and left home."
And the window banged shut.
"We should go," he said, tugging on her elbow. "You have things to do, and I sense your nephews are itching to get into the last of the chowder."
But Piper didn't move.
He gave a small sigh, impatient more with himself, she sensed, than with her. "Another time, Piper. This one's not right."
"I know. That's not why I'm not moving."
"Then what—"
She took his hand, lifted it to her face, and brushed his curved finger across a stream of tears she'd missed. Before she could do anything else, his mouth found hers, tentatively at first, as if testing just how close to crumbling she was. He must have realized that she wasn't that close, or just thought he had the antidote, because he dropped an arm around her and drew her to him, sliding his tongue into her mouth, along the edge of her teeth. She draped her own arms around his neck and laced her fingers together, just to keep herself from sliding onto the floor. She was weak, but not from shock and nervousness this time.
"I'm sorry, Piper," he whispered into her mouth, "for your house, for everything that's happening. You're sweet and generous under all that Yankee reserve, and I know it hurts you to think that someone you might know is tormenting you."
She looked into his eyes, that searing blue, those dark, dark lashes. They seemed soft all at once, sincere, the eyes of a man who cared more than he ever wanted to admit he cared. She didn't know what to say. "Thank you."
The blue eyes gleamed with sudden amusement. "You're welcome."
"Don't tell my brothers you think I'm sweet and generous."
"I won't tell a soul." The amusement reached the corners of his mouth as he stood back from her, his arms still light on her back. "It'll be our secret."
They walked back to his house, and Piper went in, picked up the phone, and dialed the police station right in front of everyone gathered in the kitchen. Someone had brought cranberry muffins, a couple of six-packs of sodas had appeared, and a slow-cooker of baked beans was simmering on the counter. Tuck O'Rourke was finishing off a doughnut. One of the fire fighters, a friend of Andrew and Benjamin's, had stopped in after he'd gone home and showered. The only women in the place were Hannah, Liddy, and herself. Her female friends tended not to come around when they thought she was in trouble with her father and brothers, and having a chimney fire almost burn her house down was a sure sign of trouble.
All eyes were on her, all voices silent, when she asked to have Ernie please stop by the Frye house when he got the chance, she had a robbery to report. No, she didn't want to talk to anyone else about it. She wanted to talk to Ernie. Frye's Cove's police department was small, and she'd have to explain the whole thing to Ernie eventually, anyway.
She hung up the phone.
Andrew said, "What now, kid?"
She pushed her hair back with both hands. She hadn't fussed with it after showering, and it had gone every which way as it dried. Her sister-in-law's baggy jeans made her feel as if she'd shrunk through the day, her ordeal slowly withering her down to nothing. She wondered if she had a red nose and red eyes from crying.
"Piper," her father said, and she realized her mind had drifted.
Hannah got creakily up from the table and withdrew her jar of miracle tea from the refrigerator. "I'll have her perked up in a