The Third Mrs. Mitchell. Lynnette Kent
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with Aunt Mary Rose. Judging by their enthusiasm, they must still be pretty good friends. As soon as they came up for air, they’d be sniffing her breath and treating her like a delinquent.
“Uh…Aunt Mary Rose?” She tugged at the sleeve of a gorgeous navy sweater that had to have come from New York. “I promised my friend Lisa we’d go to the diner for a few minutes. The team always gets a milk shake after a home game.” Like she didn’t know that, like the kids at this school hadn’t been doing the same thing for nearly forever. “Can you pick me and Trace up there?” She tried on a suck-up smile. “Would that be okay?”
Mary Rose looked as if she wanted to say no, but then she glanced at Mrs. Gates, still holding her arm. “Sure, Kelsey. That’ll be fine. I’ll meet you at the diner about thirty minutes after the game ends.” Her expression promised there would be hell to pay afterward.
But for the time being, Kelsey was free. “Thanks!” She didn’t lean in for another hug. “See ya!” Grabbing Lisa by the hand, she scurried and stumbled to the other side of the bleachers, out of the line of sight of any nosy adults.
“Here.” She dug in her purse, brought up a dollar and thrust it at Lisa. “Go get two more ginger ales and meet me by your car.”
But Lisa shook her head. “Game’s almost over, Kelse, and I can’t go home smelling like whiskey. One whiff and my mom would take away the car and the license and ground me for the rest of my life. We need to sober up.”
“Screw sober.” Kelsey started for the drink machine.
“I’m leaving,” her friend called. “See you tomorrow.”
With Lisa went the whiskey. Kelsey stopped in her tracks, shoulders slumped. She could buy her own booze—she had the fake ID Trace had made in her wallet. But she couldn’t get to the liquor store without a car.
So she drifted back to the soccer field, to watch without enthusiasm as New Skye won the game. Wearily, Kelsey followed the crowd to the diner, listened to the same stories she’d heard all day at school, ordering a cup of coffee to mask the smell of liquor on her breath.
And wondered how her life had come to be such a mess.
AS FAR BACK AS Pete could remember, Charlie’s Carolina Diner had been the place for New Skye High kids to hang out after ball games, and tonight was no exception. Judging by the noise pouring out when he opened the door, the home team had won. Teenagers crowded into the green vinyl-covered booths along the walls, shared chairs at the tables, rotated and rocked on the silver pedestal stools at the counter that usually marked adult territory. Working his way through the chaos, Pete took the one empty stool in the back corner, under a framed poster of Elvis.
“Hey, Trooper Pete.” A thick-wristed hand with a Semper Fi tattoo on the back slid a white mug of coffee his way.
“Hey yourself, Mr. B. Standing room only tonight.”
Charlie Brannon nodded. “Soccer game went into double overtime, had to finish with a kickoff. NSH beat ’em three-two. What’ll you have?”
After fifteen years of eating at Charlie’s, Pete didn’t need a menu. “Meat loaf sounds good.”
“You got it.” A broad man with iron-gray hair and a permanent tan, Charlie headed toward the kitchen door, his stiff-legged stride the result of an encounter with a land mine in Southeast Asia in the sixties. He still wore his hair Marine Corps short and held his shoulders as straight as if he were standing at attention. He could bark orders with the best drill sergeants, which was why incidents of actual trouble occurred less frequently at the diner than at the public library.
Pete sipped his coffee, one ear tuned to the talk around him while his brain replayed the sight of Mary Rose standing out there on the interstate in the afternoon sunshine, close enough to touch. With a single smile, the woman had cast a spell over him ten years ago.
And damned if she hadn’t gone and done it again today. He’d been a basket case all afternoon, thinking about Mary Rose Bowdrey. What was his problem that he couldn’t get her out of his mind?
“Hey, Pete. How’s it going?”
He looked up to see Abby Brannon standing on the other side of the counter with his dinner plate in her hands. “Good enough. How about you?”
“Just fine.” She slid his plate in front of him, put out a ketchup bottle and moved the salt and pepper shakers closer. “You want something to drink besides coffee?”
“Tea would be great. Your dad’s looking good today. Is he sticking to his diet?”
Abby didn’t ask if he wanted his iced tea sweet or unsweet. She’d been pouring for customers in this town since she was twelve, and she knew everybody’s preference. “As long as I stand over him like a hawk and watch every bite he puts in his mouth.” Setting down his glass, she blew out a frustrated breath that lifted her light brown bangs off her forehead. “I haven’t been able to bake coconut pies for a month now. He steals a piece—or two or three!—in the middle of the night when I’m asleep.”
Pete grinned. “Too bad. I could go for a piece of coconut cream pie.”
She nodded. “You and me both. But the doctor said he needs to lose at least twenty pounds. So until he does, I guess we’re out of luck. With coconut, anyway. How about lemon meringue? Dad doesn’t like lemon meringue.”
“That’s a close second.”
“I’ll bring you a piece when you’re done.” Pete watched as she moved down the counter, checking on drink refills, laughing with the kids as she handed over checks written out on an old-fashioned notepad. Abby wore the same uniform every day from March through October—a white T-shirt, khaki slacks and running shoes. In the cooler months she wore a white button-down shirt and a dark blue sweater.
Year-round, though, she had nice, full curves that fired a guy’s imagination and got him thinking about something besides frozen pizza dinners eaten in front of the TV, or even the great food she served up at her dad’s diner. Assuming the guy had options in the relationship department, of course. Some did, some didn’t. After striking out at marriage—not once, but twice—Pete put himself very definitely into the second category. And so he and Abby stayed just friends.
She came back with the lemon pie. “Did you hear that Rhonda Harding has moved home from Raleigh?”
“Yeah? I thought she had a good job with one of the research companies up there.”
“She used to, but she and her husband got divorced and her mother’s sick.” Abby glanced at him, her green eyes crinkled in a smile. “Y’all were hot and heavy senior year.”
He shrugged and looked down at the soft peak of lemon filling on his fork. “I had to take somebody to the prom.”
“Maybe you can pick up where you left off. You’ve been living like a monk for a couple of years now, Pete. Time to explore the possibilities.”
“I am not a monk.” His cheeks had gotten warm. “I go out now and then.”
“With women like me—the ones you’ve known since kindergarten and think of as sisters. Not exactly high romantic adventure.”
“I do not think of you as a sister. And anyway, when was your last date, dear Abby?”
She took his teasing with a grin. “I just dish it out. You have to take it.”
“Yeah, right.” As he rolled his eyes, Pete caught sight of the clock over the counter. “Besides which, I don’t have time for—what was it?— ‘high romantic adventure.’ I race on the weekends and weeknights I’m at school with the REWARDS program. Can you put this pie in a box for me? I need to get set up before the kids start coming in at seven.”
“No problem.”
He was on his feet and thumbing through the bills in his wallet when the bell on the front door jingled. A single glance at