CHAPTER FIVE

      HUNTER SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY in the too-narrow tweed chair facing the funeral director’s desk, unable to escape the blinding ray of sunlight glaring off the man’s polished brass nameplate.

      “Sorry, pal,” he said, turning it to face the guy, “but I left my welder’s mask in the truck.”

      Turner shot him a puzzled glance, then went right back to yammering about granite versus bronze grave markers, available visitation parlors and background music, and the cost of opening the grave. Through it all, Brooke sat stiff-backed and unsmiling, alternately scribbling notes and pecking numbers into her pocket calculator.

      The manager did some scribbling, too, before sliding a contract across his desk. Brooke took a moment to review it, and the minute she sat back, crossed her legs and cleared her throat, Hunter knew the guy was in trouble.

      She pointed at the bottom line. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Turner, but you can provide a tasteful funeral without bankrupting me, can’t you?”

      Without missing a beat, Turner withdrew a fresh form from the file drawer of his desk and, after jotting down new services and prices, handed it to her.

      “You’ll see that I’ve reduced the total by a substantial sum,” he said, looking very pleased with himself.

      “I’ll be the judge of that,” she muttered absently.

      Brooke had conducted herself the same way with the bank manager earlier, making sure the woman understood that while Brooke would assume all responsibility for the mortgage, insurance and taxes on Beth and Kent’s property, the name on the deed should read Alexander Kent Sheridan. She quoted from Maryland’s Uniform Transfers to Minors Act and informed the banker that her actions had been suggested by a reputable attorney. Had she been bluffing? If not, when had she found time to discuss all that with a lawyer? Hunter had pictured the DVD, tucked into a folder marked Connor in his filing cabinet, and an uneasy sensation had settled over him as he admitted the real reason he was with Brooke....

      “You need to know that Connor was born with a heart murmur,” Brooke had said to the bank manager. “If he needs medical attention, I’ll need access to the accounts and proof of guardianship to get him the very best care, quickly.”

      Not surprisingly, the banker had given her word to rush the paperwork.

      And just now Turner made the same promise.

      “My next stop,” she told Turner, “is the newspaper. So I’ll need to know exact dates and times of the memorial service so that I can—”

      “Oh, but we’re more than happy to take care of that for you, Miss O’Toole.” He flashed his best “the customer is always right” grin.

      “For a fee,” she said, pointing to a line on the contract that addressed obituaries.

      Hunter had been on the receiving end of Brooke’s hard-nosed inflexibility enough times to feel a little sorry for the guy. Where had Kent gotten the idea that she was scatterbrained and self-centered? Every smart decision she’d made, every astute word she’d spoken, had been on behalf of Connor, not herself.

      Turner ran a finger under his collar, and Hunter was tempted to do the same.

      “Of course we’re happy to perform that service,” Turner said, drawing a line through that charge on the contract. It was easy to see as he initialed it that the man wished he could lay his “To Serve As We Wish to Be Served” plaque on its face.

      Brooke got to her feet. “If there’s nothing more we need to discuss, we’ll be on our way.”

      Turner stood, too, and handed her an elegant black folder. “I’ll be here for the afternoon viewing day after tomorrow. But if you have any questions or concerns between now and then, please feel free to call me.”

      She opened the file and finger-walked through pamphlets and brochures in the left pocket and checked the signature line of the contract in the right.

      “Thank you, Mr. Turner. You’ve made these difficult decisions much easier.” And just like that, she excused herself to use the ladies’ room.

      “That’s some woman you’ve got there,” Turner said, watching her walk away. “Quite a head on her shoulders.” He stuck out his hand. And as Hunter grasped it, he added, “You’re one lucky man.”

      Hunter had sat mum as a mime throughout the meeting. For all Turner knew, he was Brooke’s brother, uncle, an old college friend, here to lend support. What gave the guy the impression they were a couple?

      Yeah, he thought, heading for the door, lucky me.

      He stepped into the hushed vacant hall and looked for the restrooms. A calligraphed sign pointed toward the curved plush-carpeted staircase. Hunter helped himself to a cellophane-wrapped peppermint, glanced at a few brochures, read the white-lettered blackboards that directed visitors toward the proper parlors. Nearly ten minutes passed before he saw her rounding the top step. Puffy red-rimmed eyes made it clear she’d been crying, and that surprised him a little. She’d seemed so in charge and unruffled through both meetings. But then, as a guy who’d spent years pretending he was okay with the past, he had no business criticizing her tough-girl facade.

      He was hiding behind a facade of his own: once the miserable preparations were behind her, and her sister had been laid to rest, he could deliver the disc with less damage to his conscience.

      “You did great in there,” he said, falling into step beside her.

      Brooke only harrumphed.

      She kept her head down as they crossed the parking lot. Idle chitchat seemed stupid and inappropriate, so he revived his mime routine. They got into the car and traveled a mile or so in complete silence before he said, “Hungry?”

      “Not really.”

      He’d no sooner braked for a traffic light than his stomach growled.

      “Mind if we make a quick stop to shut this thing up?”

      “Suit yourself.” She glanced over her shoulder. “What’s with the car seat?”

      “It’s Connor’s.”

      She plucked a French fry from the console’s cup holder.

      “That’s Connor’s, too. He loves fries. Rita’s ice cream. Donuts...”

      “Our grandpa used to tease Beth, saying she had a nose like a bloodhound. How did you keep her from sniffing out all that junk food?”

      “Pure dumb luck,” he said, parking in the Kelsey’s lot.

      “When you said a bite to eat,” she said, pointing at the restaurant’s sign, “I thought you meant fast food, not a sit-down meal.”

      “Haven’t had a decent meal in days, and this place serves the best corned beef cabbage for miles.”

      He parked beside a top-down convertible, and Brooke pointed at it. “They’re rushing the season a mite.”

      “Maybe the owner is an Inuit.”

      She was already standing next to the truck when he went around to open her door.

      “How’s