He glanced across at his aunt. And he owed Maxie a lot too. Not many teenage guys get saddled with newborns, and the idea of fatherhood, of being responsible for a tiny, squalling, demanding scrap of humanity, had been scary. He could never have handled the situation without Maxie.
And tonight, resplendent in a blue linen skirt and matching short jacket, she was determined to do him proud. As soon as she’d heard the plans for the evening, she’d insisted he drive her to Mister Jacques’s Fashion Boutique to pick up an outfit equal to the occasion. Born and bred in Bosque Bend, she regarded an invitation to dine at Kinkaid House as a command performance.
“I remember when Laurel’s mother, Dovie Kinkaid, was married,” she murmured, shifting the roses in her lap and releasing another wave of fragrance. “It was the talk of the town. She was in her midthirties, Lorena and Dabney’s only remaining child, and everyone thought she was going to end up an old maid until Edward Harlow came on the scene. At first all of us were scandalized. After all, she was an heiress and five years older than he was, but, in the end, it didn’t matter. They were in love, and she had more than enough money for both of them. Besides, he was such a good man.”
Jase nodded in agreement.
“Dovie was forty when Laurel was born—top crop. You know, the last harvest before the winter freeze sets in.” Maxie adjusted the roses again. “She was older than the other mothers, of course—quite reserved and terribly old-fashioned, but a really nice lady.”
“I never met her.” It had always been Laurel who answered the door, Laurel who walked him down the hall and sat with him in the big front room, visiting with him until Reverend Ed came to fetch him. At first Laurel did most of the taking, and all he could do was mumble back, because he didn’t know what to say to someone like her, who smelled like sweet honey and smiled like she was glad to see him.
He remembered how her eyes had glowed with excitement as she talked about a trip to Disney World she’d taken that summer, and, the whole time, he was seeing her as a fantasy fairy princess in spangles and stardust. But if Laurel was a princess, then he was a frog, a big lunkhead from the wrong side of the tracks. She was the perfect daughter of a perfect family, while he was the byproduct of a loudmouthed bully and a woman Growler had knocked up in passing and married at the point of her father’s shotgun. And not all the roses in the world could make up for that.
Setting his jaw, he pulled into the gravel driveway beside the house. At least he had good timing. It was exactly ten minutes after six, allowably late—much better, one of his former lady friends had assured him, than being exactly on time.
He parked a couple of yards in front of the porte cochere, but before getting out of the car, he took a second to look up at the house, at its square turrets and ornate trim. But what were all those damn air conditioners doing sticking out of the windows? His eyebrows drew together. They’d probably been there sixteen years ago, but he’d overlooked them then because the other houses on the block hadn’t been converted to central air yet. Now Kinkaid House was the Lone Ranger. Why? It was easy enough to get an old house sealed for AC, if you had the money—and Kinkaids always had money.
He helped Maxie out of the car, took the roses from her, and glanced around the yard. Shit. The place was downright seedy, and it used to be a showplace. With the blazing sunset behind him yesterday evening, he hadn’t noticed that the azaleas had gone scraggly, the hedges needed trimming, and the lawn was browning out in the middle. Probably lack of good help. Everyone knew the Reverend Ed employed a full-time cook-housekeeper, a full-time gardener-handyman, and a part-time maid—an old house like this required a lot of upkeep.
He spotted a Realtor’s sign at the corner of the yard. That was another thing he’d missed seeing yesterday. So, Laurel was serious about selling.
He took Maxie’s arm to help her across the uneven ground. They stepped up onto the porch and he pushed the doorbell.
Chapter Seven
Laurel fixed a gracious smile on her face and walked at measured pace to open the door. A secret delight sang in her veins. For the second day in a row, she’d see Jase Redlander.
He looked just right—nice, but not too formal. The sand-colored slacks and charcoal jacket fit like they’d been tailored for him, which they probably had. She swallowed hard as she noticed that his tieless white shirt, open at the neck, revealed a hint of the dark masculine shadow that had so shocked and fascinated her as a teenager.
Down, girl. He’s your guest, not the main course.
Jase stood on the porch and stared at her for an awkward moment, then abruptly thrust a sheaf of roses at her. “For you.”
Lifting the bouquet up to her face, she inhaled deeply before extending her hand to him. “They’re beautiful. Please come in.”
He stepped across the threshold and reached back to close the door behind himself, but a small woman in blue edged in beside him.