Chapter Three
Fourteen Years Later
“Pru! Look at this handbag.” Molly snagged the pink leather shoulder strap from the rack and held it up against herself. “J’adore.”
“J’adore?” Pru rolled her eyes and eased the bag out of Molly’s hands. “First of all, you’re no more French than Fifi L’Amour over there,” she whispered, throwing a look at the vixenlike owner of the newest boutique in town. La Parisienne catered to the tourists, and the prices were sky high, but Molly loved bringing Pru in here when they did some Saturday shopping.
“And second,” Pru said, in her best General Pru voice. Her uncles had given her the nickname when she was three and started to show her unwavering penchant for rule-following and corralling the family to do things exactly as they should be done. “We are shopping to purchase new sweaters for our trip next weekend. Not Kate Spade bags that don’t go with anything you own.”
“It’s the kind of bag you take on a date,” Molly said, giving the pretty purse a reluctant look.
Pru’s mouth opened to a little o, showing both disbelief and a mouthful of braces. “You have a date?” Her voice rose in thirteen-year-old drama-shock, her eyes—the same chaotic blend of green, brown, and gold as Molly’s—widening.
“Would that be so awful?”
Pru did a little fake choke. “You’re kidding, right?”
“It would be awful,” Molly guessed. “Men are awful.”
“Mom!” Pru laughed, shaking her head so some of her insanely thick, black hair fell over her narrow shoulder. “Don’t be a manhater.”
“I am not a manhater.”
“Then why don’t you date?”
“Because my standards are very high.”
“No kidding. If perhaps you scratch ‘noble bloodline’ and ‘heads charitable foundation’ and ‘looks like that guy on Outlander’ off your list, you’d have a shot at a date.”
Molly laughed. “I was kidding when I made that list. And you’d hate it if I dated. Admit the truth, girl.” Molly tugged playfully at some of that thick hair.
Pru backed away and crossed her arms. “The truth is that I have been telling you for a year that you should get out more. Have I not?” She lifted one brow, making the most of the fact that she’d been allowed to have them waxed for her thirteenth birthday, and the new look had definitely matured her young features. Her face still had the very last remnants of childish softness around the jaw, and the orthodontics made sure her appearance stayed firmly prepubescent…for now.
Truth was, her baby was blossoming into a teenager and then a young woman. And then Molly would be the one hating the idea of dating.
“You should go out with a guy sometime,” Pru said.
“I know you say that, Pru, but if I did meet a guy, you’d lay down so many rules, the guy would run for the hills.”
“Not true.” Again, she shook her head with that vehement know-it-all way she’d had since birth. “I even talked to Grandpa about it.”
Molly drew back. “You talked to my father about me dating?”
“And Gramma Finnie,” she added.
Well, Molly understood that. The only person who could rival Molly for closeness with Pru was Molly’s own grandmother. Mom and Pru had been close, too, which was another reason Molly had abandoned the idea of dating. Her mother’s unexpected passing a little over three years ago had rocked all of their worlds. And although no one could ever fill the void of losing Annie Kilcannon, it was no surprise Pru grew even closer to Gramma Finnie as everyone mourned the loss. The eighth-grader and the octogenarian made a strange but beautiful friendship.
“Why would you talk to my father and my grandmother about me dating?” Molly asked.
“Because it’s Grandpa’s gift,” she said. “He’s the force behind three marriages in our family.”
“Oh, please. He was in the right place at the right time.” Although Molly did give her father credit for the matchmaking, nothing would have stopped the power of her brothers’ new relationships. They’d have all found their soul mates with or without help from the man they jokingly called the Dogfather.
“And if you think my standards are high?” Molly gave a soft hoot. “No one on earth could be good enough for me in my father’s eyes.”
Pru laughed. “You might be right about that. Still, you’re not right about me not wanting you to date. You are totally allowed.”
“Good to have your permission.” Molly picked up a peach-colored top with holes where the shoulders should be. “Could this style go away, please?” It was always easier to joke with Pru than talk about things like dating.
“Mom.”
Or not, if Pru wanted to stay on topic. Relentless little thing. “Honey, don’t push Grandpa into trying to fix me up. I can do my own dirty work.”
“But will you?” she challenged.
Maybe. After…the weekend. The trip to the Outer Banks that she and Pru planned was much more than the “girls’ getaway” they told the family. It was…the talk. The truth. The time to tell all.
At the thought, Molly swallowed and shifted her gaze to a pile of sweaters on a post-Christmas sale table. “Were you thinking of something like that for the trip?”
Pru studied her mother for a moment, but then turned to the table of sweaters. “This is pretty.” She picked up a soft heather-gray pullover and held it against her narrow frame.
“If you’re a nun,” Molly said, hating the dreary thing.
“Or if you appreciate a classic,” Pru retorted, making Molly smile. “Can I try this on, Mom?”
Molly had long ago accepted that she and her daughter had polar-opposite tastes in clothes. And decorating. And food. And movies. And how to organize a pantry, library, or to-do list. For Pru, rules and structure made the world go round. And Molly couldn’t love her any more for it if she tried.
“Of course you should try it on,” Molly said, getting a kick of maternal affection that was as instinctive as breathing around her daughter. “I’m going to look around.”
“At expensive handbags?”
“At sweaters for our trip,” she promised.
“Good idea.” Pru leaned closer. “You’ll want cozy clothes for when we’re walking empty beaches having meaningful mother-daughter talks.”
For a second, Molly just stared at her, dread at the impending weekend making her stomach feel a little queasy. “Is that all we’re going to do? No spa time? Fancy dinners? Maybe some serious shopping?”
“Mom.” Pru made a face. “You know why we’re going. You promised.”
Yes, she had. On that snowy Christmas Eve a few weeks ago when the whole family secretly orchestrated one of the best holiday surprises in history. But the real surprise was the conversation she’d had with her daughter that night, when Pru essentially said…it’s time.
And it was time. Pru had every right to know her father’s name and the circumstances of her birth. Molly had solemnly sworn that she would tell Pru everything after the holidays, which had come and gone as the days of January started to slip by with alarming speed.
“Try the sweater on, Pru. I’m not going to renege on a promise.”
Satisfied, Pru turned and headed toward the dressing room, and Molly took a few steps back to that handbag.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” The store owner, a middle-aged, overly made-up woman named Yvette, came out from behind the counter. “Pink really is a neutral color.”
Molly shook her head. “My daughter nixed it.”
That made her smile. “Since when do we listen to our daughters?”
“Since…she was born,” Molly admitted. Pru had always been her sounding board, even when she was a wee little girl and the only thing anyone was sounding about was what to have for dinner.
“I noticed how close you two are when you come in here,” Yvette said. “You seem to have so much fun together.”
“We do.” Molly couldn’t help beaming. “She’s special.”
“Most kids that age would die a thousand deaths before shopping with their mother.”
“Well, I do have the credit card,” Molly joked, not wanting to brag about their extraordinary relationship. She knew she and Pru had something wonderful—a friendship and a tiny immediate family of two.
“It’s more than that,” the woman mused. “You’re doing something right.”
Molly smiled. “I hope so. Thanks.”
The door opened, taking the woman’s attention to a new customer and leaving Molly to meander to some tops at the front of the store, imagining what she’d pack for the trip to tell all. Not much, since she was already bringing all the emotional baggage a person needed.
Maybe Pru was right. Maybe when this was all behind her, she would start dating again.
She wanted to, no question about it. Yes, Pru was the best thing in her life, and her job as a vet with two offices was busy. But Molly often woke in the middle of the night so profoundly alone that she couldn’t breathe. She ached for a man’s touch, and the kind of companionship she saw her brothers all enjoying as they fell in love last year, one by one.
Pru would be off to college in five years, and then Molly would be in her late thirties. Too old to find Mr. Perfect.
She smiled, remembering the list Pru had her make a few months ago on a night when she was feeling a bit lonely, not long after Liam and Andi married in the living room of Waterford Farm. Yes, her standards were high, but how could they not be? She was surrounded by her awesome brothers and wouldn’t settle for less than what they offered their wives. She wanted a decent man. A good-hearted, kind, loving, compassionate man who could hold his own at the Kilcannon dinner table.
She looked over the rack of clothes, out to the side street of Bitter Bark, which wasn’t exactly bustling with tourists and townsfolk in the middle of January, but there were quite a few people—and dogs—enjoying a crisp Saturday afternoon.
Her soon-to-be sister-in-law, Chloe, engaged to Shane, should be congratulated on a job well done in building tourism. It had been Chloe’s idea to have the town rename itself Better Bark for one year to brand it as a dog-friendly vacation destination in the foothills of North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains.
The canine push was a boon to Molly’s business, of course, as one of her vet offices was a few streets away on the other side of Bushrod Square. But it also meant more bodies in town, more jobs, and more…men.
She glanced from one to the other, noticing that most of the men between thirty and fifty were with women, since Better Bark was marketed heavily to families. But there were a few. As her gaze skimmed the passersby, a man across the street caught her attention. He was walking along the square with an unleashed but extremely obedient dog, both of them moving in concert.
Someone like that, she thought. With broad shoulders and a confident stride that matched his dog’s. A strong jaw and close-cropped hair, who was both clean-cut and sexy. He paused for a minute, right in Molly’s line of vision, adjusting a navy wool jacket so it sat more comfortably on his shoulders in a move that was…oddly familiar.
She watched as he interacted with the dog, getting him to sit, then reaching in his pocket for a treat. She couldn’t tell the breed from here, only that it was a mix and beautifully trained. Lab and Staffy, maybe.
But for a moment, Molly forgot she was a vet and remembered she was a woman. The man angled his head, then turned, glancing in the direction of this section of storefronts. She wanted him to come closer, maybe head into the sandwich shop across the street, then she’d go in with Pru and strike up a conversation about the dog. One thing could lead to…something.
He started walking toward her, making her heart kick up enough to be a little embarrassing. She was staring at a perfect stranger, at a…
Or was he a stranger? Frowning, she watched him walk, swipe back his hair, look around, adjust that jacket again. He was too far away to make out his features, but there was something oddly familiar about him. Had he been to Waterford? Adopted the dog from the canine rescue and training facility her family now ran? Or brought the animal into her office?
Not possible she would forget a man that effortlessly attractive.
She watched as he crossed the street and came closer, and she could finally see the square strong line of his jaw, the deep ebony of his hair and lashes, the shape of his…
She sucked in a breath, all of the blood suddenly draining from her head.
Trace Bancroft.
He turned just then and disappeared into the hardware store, leaving Molly gripping the rack of clothing for support, dizzy and stunned and blinking away the ghost she’d just seen.
Of course, it was impossible. Trace was dead. Her mother had never succeeded in her efforts to track him down, but when Pru was very little, not even two, Annie Kilcannon had come into Molly’s room with the first and only concrete information they’d ever had on him.
She had it “on very good authority” that Trace had been killed in a bar fight in West Virginia. She didn’t have any details or information, but Molly hadn’t cared. In fact, she’d felt no sadness at this news, only relief.
In the years since, Molly had gotten totally comfortable with the notion that Pru’s father was dead. When pressed, she told very close friends over the years that Pru’s father had passed away, though she hadn’t revealed his name or that he was from Bitter Bark.
As her mother had predicted, her family forgot all about the secret of Pru’s father, or at least, they never mentioned it. Molly knew in her heart that her mother had taken their secret to her far-too-early grave. But once Pru found out his name, she’d probably do research and learn that—
“What do you think?”
She spun around at Pru’s question, rooting for stability and sense when it all seemed to disappear at the sight of one man. She blinked, seeing her daughter in the sunlight, her hair that same deep, near black as…the man she’d just seen.
Pru’s shoulders shook in a silent laugh. “Wow, based on the look that says you might heave, I’m gonna say it’s a no.”
She actually might heave, if that had been who she thought he was.
“Mom?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Pru. It’s…it’s…it’s the color of dull,” she said, forcing herself to be normal and sarcastic, not a shell-shocked lunatic who saw ghosts on the street.
Pru tugged on the bottom of the sweater, which, in truth, was lovely and, yes, classic. “I kind of like it.”
“Well, okay,” Molly said brightly, knowing she sounded fake and her cheeks were probably bright red but hoping Pru thought it was all because of sweater-hate.
“Are you?” Pru stepped closer.
“Am I what?”
“Okay.” She searched Molly’s face as if looking for an explanation. “You look weird.”
Because I just saw a dead man. “I’m fine. It’s hot in here.” She glanced over her shoulder at the window as if longing for an escape but really hoping for a glimpse that would confirm she was wrong about who she thought she saw.
“Oh, come on, Mom. You think I don’t know?”
Oh Lord. Did she? “Know…what?”
“That you really want that designer bag.”
Relief swamped Molly. “I do like it,” she said, seizing on the subject change.
“So get it. Maybe you will have a date one of these days.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Wanting to only stop thinking about that man, Molly spun around to the purse and picked up the tag. “Ugh. Too rich for my blood. But you should definitely get the sweater.”
“I don’t look like a nun?”
Molly took a good long time staring at her daughter, at her slender body that would soon blossom even more, and at her sweet face that was much more Kilcannon than anything else. This child, this miracle, this gift.
Channeling her inner Annie Kilcannon, she reached forward, put both hands on Pru’s cheeks, and said, “You look like the angel you are. Let’s buy it.”
“I love you, Mommy.” She leaned closer and smacked a kiss on Molly’s cheek, then turned to skip back to the dressing room. For a moment, Molly watched her near-ebony hair swing, her coltish body moving gracefully. Her words echoed, sounding very much like ones Molly had said to her own mother daily…until the last day.
“See?” Yvette said from behind the counter. “You two have something special.”
“I know,” Molly agreed. And hopefully, their special thing wouldn’t change when she told Pru she was conceived in the doggie van by a guy who really did die in a bar fight.
She never wanted anything with Pru to change. Ever.