Sweet Tibby Mack. Roz Fox Denny
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brought up Mabel’s return trip. “If you stay past Sunday, call me. Otherwise I’ll be here at nine.”
“Then you aren’t planning a move to San Diego while I’m gone?”
Tibby gasped. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Someone saw you poring over college brochures.”
“I’m looking at correspondence courses in nutrition.” Tibby set Mabel’s case on the scale at the check-in counter. Idle chatter fell off as the reservations agent stamped Mabel’s ticket and gave her a boarding pass. During the short walk to the concourse, Tibby picked up where they’d left off. “Organic foods and fresh herbs are a start toward good health, Mabel, but I’d like to provide the residents with more. I want all of you to live to be a hundred.”
“You already take good care of us, Tibby. It’s time you gave some thought to taking care of yourself.”
Tibby blinked. “I do exercise and try to eat right.”
“Oh, dear, they’re calling my flight.” Mabel patted Tibby’s smooth hand with her wrinkled one. “Longevity stems from more than a healthy body, dear. How long has it been since you’ve enjoyed the company of anyone your own age? Someone like that nice-looking Cole O’Donnell, for instance.” She winked. “Goodness, last call already? Look after yourself, Tibby. I’ll see you Sunday. And Tibby? Don’t forget the two essentials of happiness—something to do and someone to love.”
Mabel’s words nagged at Tibby on the drive home. It seemed a curious statement for anyone who knew her to make. When had she ever had companions her own age? Occasionally, during the summers, if any of the residents’ grandchildren visited. Mostly the girls had been silly and giggly, the boys cocksure and pushy. All except Cole, who at four years her senior, had let her tag along sometimes. Him she’d worshipped. Then came the year she’d desperately wanted him to notice she’d grown up.
Which, of course, he never did.
Speaking of the boy wonder—as she passed Yale’s cedar ranch-style house, she saw him amid a cluster of colorful mopeds. The women of Yaqui Springs seemed entranced, watching Cole’s teeth flash white in the afternoon sun.
Tibby snorted in disgust. No wonder Henrietta, Mabel and Justine were smitten, watching him ooze charm. He seemed to be going out of his way to enchant them.
Why, Tibby wondered? It wasn’t as if he intended to join the community.
Her whole body was tense by the time she reached the store. Fortunately Justine was too busy to ask questions, and Tibby was soon able to forget Cole O’Donnell and Mabel’s provocative exit line. In between waiting on customers, the mail came. Tibby hefted the bags, dashed to the post office, sorted and tucked mail into the residents’ boxes. Justine had taken off shortly after Tibby returned.
Around four—still two hours to closing—she found a minute to sit down with a cup of blackberry tea. The aroma soothed her and the sweet flavor took the edge off her hunger. Normally she ate a piece of fruit for lunch. Today there simply hadn’t been time. Now it was too close to dinner.
She’d just taken a sip when the bell over the front door jingled. Tibby glanced up, then all but choked on the hot tea. Cole stood in the entryway shrugging into a T-shirt Her lungs threatening to collapse, Tibby caught a glimpse of bronzed corded muscles and a line of dark silky hair that disappeared under low-riding jeans.
Before he finished tucking the shirt into his jeans, Cole spoke. “I’ve just surveyed my grandfather’s land. Are you aware that your outbuilding—the post office I understand Lara had built—sits squarely on his property? Er…my property.”
Tibby saw him carelessly muss his sweat-damp hair. Heat pooled in her stomach. Obviously her tea needed more time to cool.
He stalked toward her. “Well, don’t you have anything to say?”
“Would you like a cup of blackberry tea?” she offered breathlessly.
Cole scowled. “I’d like to discuss this problem.”
“There isn’t any problem. Coffee’s around the corner if you’d rather have that. Soft drinks and water in the front case. Consider it my treat.”
Leaning both arms on the coffee bar, Cole forced her to look up. “When you have a structure a good twenty feet onto land belonging to me, I call it a problem.”
“Your grandfather donated the property to us—to my grandmother for the post office. I guess you don’t remember when residents had to drive all the way to Brawley to pick up mail. This is much nicer.”
He drummed his fingers on the wood. “Donated? Do you have that in writing?”
“Probably. Someplace. Yale was meticulous when it came to business.” There had been a letter. Tibby didn’t think it mentioned that she’d won the parcel in a golf wager. Yale loved to play. He’d taken over Tibby’s training after Joe Toliver taught her the rudiments. He bet outlandishly and rarely lost—except to her. The other golfers in town referred to her win as a fluke for Yale’s sake, but everyone knew the truth.
Cole waited, but she didn’t elaborate or offer him her copy. “Um…Gramps filed every receipt and every scrap of paper that ever crossed his desk,” he muttered. “There’s an entire room full of five-drawer file cabinets. I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea where to begin looking. It might take me weeks to find the documentation.”
“More like months,” Tibby said, averting her gaze. “I know. I frequently helped file his backlog.”
“Look, the burden of proof lies with you. His lawyer sent me copies of deeds, land grants and a plot plan. There was no reference to any donation. I need that section. You’ll have to tear the building down and relocate it on your own land.”
Tibby’s temper flared. “I don’t know who you’re selling to, but surely they won’t miss one worthless hill.” She folded her arms. “Besides, isn’t possession nine-tenths of the law?” she added flippantly.
“Says you. And for your information, I’m not selling. I’m planning to build an eighteen-hole golf course. That worthless hill is a prime location for my clubhouse.”
“A golf course?” Tibby blanched. “Why? Everyone plays at Bogey Wells.”
“Are you saying you aren’t aware that the people of Yaqui Springs want their own course? I find that hard to believe when your store seems to be the headquarters for gossip.”
So that’s why everyone was ecstatic when Cole showed up. Tibby couldn’t imagine why she’d been left out of the loop. That knowledge hurt. As possible reasons whirled through her head, she rose and watched Cole wander around the store, picking up a few food items. Bread, cheese, coffee, a selection of fruits and vegetables. Finally he threw in a six-pack of light beer.
“Anna must have cleaned out Gramps’s cupboards when she was here,” he said stiffly. “They’re bare as old Mother Hubbard’s.”
“Anna? Oh, your mother.” Tibby rang up items automatically. Her brain retraced what Cole had said about building a golf course. Even if he designed one, who would run it? Did that mean he intended to sell to a resort developer? Yaqui Springs would never be the same if he did.
“Regarding that so-called letter…” Cole said as Tibby bagged his groceries. “I’m staying at the house. If you turn up something, you can drop it off there.”
Tibby ignored that. “Talk to the people who invited you here. They know Yale contributed the land. In Brawley the post office never let any one person from here collect everyone’s mail. It placed a hardship on residents who didn’t drive. Having our own postal service was Gram’s dream. But unless she tore out the gardens or the orchard, her property wasn’t suitable. Yale’s land was the perfect solution. Why don’t you put your clubhouse someplace else?”
“I don’t expect you to understand