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“I’m Hazel Summers,” she says. “Tom’s wife. Tom’swidow. I have something to give you.”
My smile evaporates and I feel like I’ve been hit with a sledgehammer. “Jesus, you’reTom’swife?” I say. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t realize it was you.”
She shakes her head, her thick, chin-length brown hair swishing. “Don’t worry about it. You couldn’t have known.”
I reach out and place my hand on the warm skin of her shoulder. I feel like such a creep, putting the moves on my dead friend’s wife. I was half in love with her after ten minutes—she’ssobeautiful, with a dry sense of humor and hazel eyes that sparkle with intelligence. Guilt stabs at me. I thought she was up to something, but she just needed to talk to me about her dead husband.
“I’m so sorry about Tom,” I say. “He was my best friend, and I feel terrible about missing his death and the funeral.”
“Please don’t feel bad,” she tells me. She places her much smaller hand on top of the one I have resting on her shoulder. It’s warm and soft, a tempting contrast to my big, work-roughened paws. “He got sicksofast and there wasn’t time for a lot of things.”
“I wouldneverhave missed it if I’d known,” I say as I slide my arm around her to pull her in a bit closer. I want to give her the kindness and sympathy that she deserves. “I was up in Alaska on a volunteer project, and we were working out on the tundra for weeks at a time. I didn’t find out until I came back to Anchorage and got a call from his mom.”
It’s the only adventure I’ve ever regretted.
Her hand creeps up to rest on my chest, a simple, intimate gesture that sets my heart pounding. “I know, Callum. Really, it’s okay.”
“Areyouokay?” I ask. My heart hurts for her when I think about what it must have been like to lose a husband so young. What is she, maybe twenty-nine now? She met Tom when she was nineteen and he was twenty-four.
She nods in answer to my question. “Yes, I’m okay,” she says. “I miss him every day and I always will, but the hurt is less…” she trails off, looking thoughtful. “Less immediate, I guess. Like a bone that used to be broken, and now it just aches sometimes.”
I take a deep breath. “I always felt bad about drifting apart from him. Whenever I talked to him or we got together, though, it felt just as normal and natural as when we lived together in college.”
“It’s really fine,” she tells me. Her hand, still resting on my chest, moves in a couple of soothing circles. “That’s normal adulthood stuff. He felt bad about it, too, but he was so busy finishing up his residency and finding a long-term position that he had a hard time staying in touch with anyone.”
I slide my palm down to her back and rub it gently. “I’m very glad that I got to meet you tonight, Hazel.”
“I’m glad I got to meet you, too, Callum,” she says. “There’s something I—“
“Callum,” someone says behind me.
I stiffen and turn around. Ruthie stands right there, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Who is this?” Ruthie asks. “I don’t believe we’ve met, but welcome to my home.”
She walks forward and extends a hand toward Hazel, who smiles unconvincingly as she takes it.
Ruthie gives Hazel an appraising glance and looks up at me, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Well, Callum, are you going to introduce me?”
I make a split-second decision and slide my arm back around Hazel’s waist, pulling her next to me as my fingers gently caress the silky black fabric of her form-fitting dress. She shivers slightly, and I look down and see goosebumps on her smooth, porcelain skin.
“Ruthie, this is my date for the evening, Hazel,” I tell my smiling grandmother. “I didn’t think Hazel would be able to make it tonight, but she just made it a few minutes ago. Hazel, this is my grandmother, Ruth Locklear.”
“I insist you call me Ruthie,” my grandmother says. “Are you having a good time this evening?”
“Very good,” Hazel replies. My grandmother is practically a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out bullshit, but Hazel seems so calm and unruffled that I don’t think Ruthie suspects a thing. “I love all of your Christmas decorations.”
“Oh, you can thank my grandsons for most of that,” Ruthie says. “Callum, I need you to do me a favor.”
“I’m listening,” I say. “What is it?”
“My good friend—you know, John Morelli—well, his horse came up lame yesterday, and Doc Smith won’t be able to get out to John’s ranch for a few days.” Ruthie. “He thinks his horse might have a fairly serious injury. I said I would ask you if you can go take a look.”
“What kind of horse is it?” I ask. “Is John the one that raises Tennessee Walkers?”
“Oh, goodness, Callum, I have no idea,” Ruthie says as she pats my arm. “Horses all look the same to me. Can you do it?”
I shrug. “I guess so,” I say. “I’ll call Doc Smith in the morning and get some supplies from him and head over in the afternoon.”
