Seeing it now, John was filled with a sense of coming home. He pulled the Harley into the drive. Almost immediately Verna appeared on the porch, a willowy woman with hair the color of champagne. When she raised her hand in greeting and he saw her broad smile, his fingers relaxed on the bike’s handlebar grips. He was home.
This time for good.
Hope saw the motorcycle sitting in front of the carriage house when she pulled into the driveway. Idly, she wondered who Verna was showing through the barn. Though her aunt hadn’t had any late afternoon appointments scheduled when Hope left for the bridal fair that morning, it wasn’t unusual for prospective clients to drop by without an appointment.
Despite Amity’s remarks looming over her like a dark cloud, Hope felt good about what she’d accomplished today. The booth had been worth every penny of the premium price they’d paid. Barn weddings were all the rage, and her booth displayed a slideshow of their gleaming red barn with its arched roof and remodeled interior. A number of brides and their mothers had set up times to visit Harmony Creek.
After they’d torn down their booths, Amity had urged Hope to join her and some friends for dinner. But Hope was in no mood to socialize. Thankfully, Chet had called off their date for tonight. The man who would be his campaign manager had scheduled a meeting with business leaders about a possible state senate run.
Just as well. Hope had too much on her mind, none of which she was ready to discuss with Amity or Chet.
What if I am still married to John?
Hope stepped from the car, closing her eyes against the sudden stab in her heart. She knew God wouldn’t give her more than she could bear.
It will be okay, she told herself. It will all be okay.
She entered the house, where she lived with her aunt, via the back door. Aunt Verna stood at the stove stirring a pot of soup and speaking with a man whose back was to Hope. He was tall and lanky, his wavy dark hair almost as long as hers. Hope had never seen her aunt cook in front of a potential client.
Obviously Verna knew this man and felt comfortable around him. Still, since her aunt seemed so determined to get dinner on the table, Hope would be a good niece and offer to show him around.
Before she could make the offer, the man turned. Her heart dropped to her toes. She didn’t know whether to laugh hysterically or cry. Not more than she could bear? God apparently had more faith in her than was warranted.
“Hello, Hope,” she heard John say. “It’s good to see you again.”
Dinner in the Prentiss household was always served family style. Tonight was no exception. A large platter held pieces of fried chicken, John’s favorite. Bowls of whipped potatoes, green beans, and carrots sat in the middle of the farmhouse table.
Hope’s appetite had vanished, but she was determined to get through the meal if it killed her. It would be the best way to find out exactly what had brought John back to Harmony . . . and how long he planned to stay.
She’d been tempted to ask earlier, when she’d first seen him in the kitchen. But when he drew her to him in a quick embrace, she’d lost the ability to form a single word. Though she’d seen him at various holidays, he hadn’t touched her since the night they’d . . . married.
By the time he released her and she’d regained her power of speech, John was out of the house, promising to be back by dinnertime. Now here he was, sitting across from her.
If he was uncomfortable in her presence, it didn’t show.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask you earlier.” Hope passed him the gravy boat and spoke in what she hoped was a casual tone. “How long will you stay this time?”
Other than Christmas or Thanksgiving, his visits had only lasted a day or two before he was back on the road again for Portland. He was an artist, specializing in sculpting. Hope had to admit the piece he’d given Verna last Mother’s Day—a figure of a woman with arms outstretched toward the sky made out of steel, data cables, and ten-inch-long nails—was impressive. Almost as impressive as the man himself.
Hope watched John add to the whipped potatoes some of the white chicken gravy that Verna claimed was a special recipe. Actually, what made it different—and so delicious—was the addition of bacon drippings that Verna saved in a jar.
Meeting her gaze, John smiled. Hope was ashamed to admit her traitorous heart fluttered. When she was a teenager, she’d been convinced that he was the handsomest boy on the planet. With his jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and features that could have come from a Roman warrior, John had been every young girl’s fantasy. He was even handsomer now.
He’d let his hair grow long until the dark strands brushed his shoulders. The extra twenty pounds of muscle he’d put on for high-school sports had disappeared, leaving a leaner frame and even more pronounced cheekbones. But his lashes were still long and those perfectly sculpted lips just as tempting.
Hope couldn’t take her eyes off his mouth, recalling how he used to trail kisses down her neck while whispering sweet words of love. She wondered suddenly what it’d feel like to kiss him again.
The mere thought had her lips tingling.
“What did you ask me?” His eyes remained fixed on her.