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      Rule 1: A lady never cries in public.

      FOR THE FIRST time in her life, Carly Cassidy broke the rules, and what had it gotten her? Nothing but trouble, she realized, sitting in her defunct Ford Escort in an unfamiliar city where she knew absolutely no one, and harboring more guilt than any mother—Jewish, Catholic or otherwise—could possibly inflict.

      Knowing that she’d disappointed so many people did that to a person, she thought. Her gaze slid to the open doorway of a corner bar. If they had a pay phone, she could call a tow truck. Guilt and regret were tough enough to swallow without adding desperation to her already overloaded emotions. But then again, she had run away from her own wedding and spent hours gazing out at the sailboats on Lake Michigan. She’d bet not a single one of the occupants soaking up the warmth of the midday sun experienced one iota of the shame and disappointment she felt. By the time the sun started to set she still hadn’t found the relief that she had made the right decision.

      Raucous rock music drifted from the open doorway of the neighborhood tavern, snagging her attention. The only other sign of life in the older section of Chicago came from a closed market halfway down the block with a dim light spilling onto the pavement. She turned in the seat and looked behind her toward the market for a pay phone, seeing nothing more than a stretch of pavement and darkened storefronts. She couldn’t very well sit in the car all night.

      “Oh sweet Mary,” she muttered. She was an adult. She had every right to walk into that bar and use the phone, and even order a drink if she wanted. So why was she hesitating?

      She let out a sigh. Because twenty-four years of following rules told her a preacher’s daughter didn’t enter a bar without a male escort. Especially if the daughter in question was wearing a wedding gown!

      With a lift of her chin and a determination to break her second rule in the same day, she scooped her little white satin bag from the passenger seat and climbed out of the car, thankfully without tripping over the voluminous yards of white satin.

      She tugged hard on the train she hadn’t had time to detach before her abrupt departure from her own wedding, ten feet of satin spilling from the driver’s seat onto the asphalt. Not bothering with the elastic wrist-band, she bunched the fabric in her hand, slammed the door to her uncooperative Escort sedan, and walked resolutely toward the entrance below a green, flashing neon sign.

      Blaring music and the stench of stale smoke and alcohol hit her when she slipped inside the bar. All she needed was a telephone to call a tow truck, and then she’d be on her way. Where, she hadn’t decided, but she planned to stay as far away from Homer, Illinois, as possible.

      She stepped up to the archway leading into the bar. Her confidence wavered. She could do this. How else was she going to learn to take care of herself, and more importantly, do things her way, if she couldn’t even walk into a bar?

      The song blasting from the jukebox at damaging decibel levels she recognized from an older MTV rock video. Flea. The lead singer’s name was Flea, and in the video, most of his body had been covered in tattoos. Who would name their child