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“I’m taking the rest of the day off.”
When she didn’t answer, he didn’t take the hint and keep moving. Instead, he stopped next to her and studied the pottery, too. In his reflection on the glass, she saw his brow furrow.
“I think I’d go with the basset hound,” he mused. “Or maybe the sheep. Graceful lines, don’t you think?”
She’d intended to ignore him, but when her gaze landed on those two pieces, she could barely choke back her laughter. “The sheep?”
The basset hound was adorable—sway-backed, its chest touching the shelf, long, floppy ears trailing along behind it. The sheep was a round ball of clay atop four splayed feet, only the tip of its nose protruding beyond its heavy wool.
Nathan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’m sure I’ve seen work by that artist at the Minneapolis Museum of Art.”
“If that’s true, then I know a few thousand kindergartners in line to make a fortune with clay.” She glanced up at Nathan and found his eyes brimming with amusement. Who would have thought he had a sense of humor? She remembered him as a quiet kid, one who’d seemed aloof and unapproachable. Now she wondered if he might have just been shy. “Don’t let me hold you up if you want to rush in and buy it before someone else does. I should be on my way, anyhow.”
He flashed her a smile. “I’ll take my chances and wait. I’d rather walk with you.”
After watching Yvonne Weatherfield bat her baby blues at him last weekend, that was a little hard to believe. Maybe he’d grown curious about why Sara was really here. Maybe he’d already figured out a little too much.
She lifted a shoulder. “Whatever.”
When they started walking again, he sauntered along as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Almost everyone they passed greeted him and then looked at her with open interest. Great. Really great.
“It’s been fun,” Sara muttered after they’d gone three blocks and run into half the population of Ryansville. “But I think I’d better head home. See you around.”
The man was either obtuse or he had an agenda, because when she turned down Birch, so did he. “Don’t you have something to do?” she snapped when she stopped in front of the Shuellers’ house.
He feigned surprise, but she could detect a twinkle lurking in the depths of his gaze. “I just did it. My mom always said I should take a lady to her door.”
“That,” Sara said coldly, “is if the lady is a date.”
“Which brings up an interesting point. What are you doing tonight?”
“Laundry.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Busy.”
“Okay, then—” he thought for a moment “—I have meetings on Monday and Tuesday evenings. Wednesday?”
“Can’t.”
At the lift of his brow, she found herself adding, “It’s my mother’s birthday.” And if I have to drag her out of that apartment, she’s going out for a nice meal.
“Is your brother coming home for it?”
Outright flirtation she could have breezily dismissed. At any hint of disapproval or condescension she would have automatically shot back some disdainful remark and left. But the unexpected sympathy in his voice weakened her defenses. “I...don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“It’s a small town,” he said quietly. He reached out as if planning to brush his fingers along her jaw, but then dropped his arm. “People talk.”
All around them, maple and oak leaves drifted down on a soft breeze like giant snowflakes of rust and amber. The distant, sweet scent of burning leaves reminded her of a time long ago, when her father had come home with his lunch pail and a smile. When everything seemed stable and secure.
“Being back in Ryansville always brings back good memories and bad, but nothing can ever change what happened.”
“No,” he conceded gently. “Though only your father was responsible for what he did. Maybe the rest of you need to put it in the past.”
“In the past?” Her mother turned into a bitter recluse. Her brother had gone through one of the most notable teenage rebellions in recent history. And even though Sara would never believe that her father had killed Frank Grover, she’d buried herself in a demanding, often dangerous career more than a thousand miles away. Oh yes, we’ve all dealt with the past very well indeed.
“There are some people who haven’t...forgotten, even after twenty-five years.” He rested a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Call me if you have any trouble. Promise?”
