Declan was hot, sweaty, and his eyeballs were dry and burning behind their protective guard. His bandanna was soaked, his leather gloves suffocating, his ears ringing with the metallic clank of metal on metal.

But he loved every minute of it: the rhythmic clang-clang-clang whenever he was hammering on a piece of iron, the way its fired end glowed like an asteroid, the way it made such a satisfactory zip-like sizzling sound whenever he plunged it into a tub of water.

He didn’t mind that he tasted salt whenever he paused to think and plan the angle of the next blow, and how many more strikes until the curve would be just right. He didn’t mind the smell of his sweat—the clean scent of good, hard work—for it was the sign of a job in process. Of creation.

And the heat…well, he didn’t mind that either, because pretty much everywhere else on earth was cooler than his workshop, so the minute he stepped out of the place, it was a relief. Sure, the occasional sears he got when he wasn’t paying attention, or the random sparks that flew and landed on, say, the side of his neck or chin—the only parts that were really exposed—were an annoyance. But even with the familiar scent of singed flesh, blacksmithing was a great occupation.

He got to take out any aggressions he might have—and there were days when he had many—on whatever iron bar he was forcing into shape. And then there were days like today, Saturday, when he was in a great mood and the rhythm of his hammer striking the heated iron bar fell in blows that matched whatever song was in his head.

Literal heavy metal music.

He grinned to himself at the old blacksmith’s joke and slid back into AC/DC’s classic “You Shook Me All (strike!) Night (strike!) Long (strike, strike, strike!).”

For some reason, that tune brought to mind Leslie Nakano: celebrity CEO, cat lover, wordsmith, and ghost hunter. And magnificent kisser. Oh, indeed.

He pretty much hadn’t stopped thinking about those few moments of bliss, with her legs wrapped around his waist as she perched on the counter in her kitchen and gave it back as good as she got. Hoo boy. He was hoping to finish this piece of the railing so he could have a reason to stop by and show—

“Dad!”

Declan abruptly returned to the moment, his goofy grin fading when he realized Stephanie had been standing there, trying to get his attention, for quite some time. He’d warned her not to startle him when he was working, and had shown her where in the workshop was the safe area in which she could stand.

He lifted the hand holding his hammer in a “wait a sec” gesture, then gave one final clang and nodded with satisfaction at the nice curve that was taking shape. Then he shoved it back into the brick-oven forge for a few.

Turning back around, he stripped off his goggles and, stepping away from the work area, pulled off his heavy gloves and the heavy canvas work apron, hanging them in their places. Immediately, he was cooler—for beneath he was only wearing one of his old tees that had the sleeves torn off and most of the sides as well, for ventilation.

He snagged a towel and mopped off his face—and that was when he realized two of Stephanie’s friends were with her. They (not his daughter, thank God) were staring at him with, he suspected, the same sort of goofy expression he’d just had thinking about Leslie Nakano’s sweet ass settling on the granite while he kissed the life out of her.

He paused from mopping the sweat off his face, and realized one of the girls was Emily Delton’s daughter Brooklyn. She was ogling his sweaty biceps like she wanted to dry them off herself.

Good Lord. He sure as hell hoped he was mistaken about that.

“What’s up?” He spun, walking over to turn down the volume of Back in Black, one of his favorite albums to crank up while he was working—and to put some space between him and the groupies.

“Here, Dad,” Stephanie said, and shoved a button-down shirt at him. Christ, was she embarrassed too? But he could relate. It must be like the time she was walking toward him on the beach in one of those damn little bikinis the girls all seemed to wear now and he got to watch how all the young men noticed her—no, ogled, slathered, drooled—as she strolled by.

Mortifying.

“Thanks. What’s up?” he asked again, acutely aware of the blushes—yet avid looks—that had colored the faces of his daughter’s friends. Awk-ward, as Steph would say. He began to struggle into the shirt—which was easier said than done, considering how damp and sweaty he was.

“We’re leaving, Dad! I just came to let you know. You’ll be at Paul Hammady’s house by six, right?”

He realized for the first time that his daughter’s hair was twisted up in a fancy style for which he’d paid an unreal amount of money, and that she was holding a garment bag and a pair of impossibly high-heeled shoes.

You’re going to break your neck walking in those, he wanted to say. Forget about dancing. But he didn’t. He was still feeling his way around as the new dad, and wasn’t completely certain what his boundaries were—both in general, and in front of her friends.

God help him if she ever got a boyfriend.

Which…would be over his dead body. At least until she was thirty.

Fortunately, she didn’t have an official date for tonight’s dance. It was just a group of friends—both guys and gals—eating dinner, then going together. He heartily approved.

“Right. I’ll be there. Six o’clock at Hammadys’ house. You left me the address?”

“I texted it to you yesterday, Dad.”

“Right. Thanks. Okay, I’ll see you then.”

“I guess all the parents are going out for dinner after,” Stephanie added with a sly look after her friends had stepped out of earshot. “I told Brooklyn’s mom you’d definitely want to go.”

“All right. Thanks,” he said, then, despite the stinky sweatiness of himself, gave her a good smacking kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you there. You look great so far. I can’t wait to see you in your dress.”

“Thanks, Dad,” she said, smiling. “And by the way,” she said, leaning toward him with a furtive glance toward her friends’ backs, her brow furrowing with disgust, “you should know they were creeping pics of you on their cell phones while you were working. I just hope they don’t tag me when they post them online.”

What? Holy crap—post them online? What the hell?

But Declan couldn’t even get the words out—he didn’t even know where to begin—before Stephanie was gone.

How did this happen to me? he wondered, turning around aimlessly. How did I get to be the father of a teenager whose friends take pictures of me on their cell phones?

His face was hot and flaming now, and it had nothing to do with the furnace or his work. Sonofabitch, if Baxter or Ethan ever heard about this, he was never going to live it down. If Emily Delton found out… Good God. Or Leslie…

Jesus. I need a damned beer.

But the forge was calling him, and if he got back to it, he could finish the main curve of that piece before he had to get in the shower and make himself presentable for the Homecoming Dance picture fest. As that might take some time, he mused, he figured he’d better get back to work.

* * *

By the time Declan emerged from his work, it was almost five. He swore when he saw the time—and the number of texts and voice mails that had come through while he was jamming to AC/DC and Nirvana.

At first, his heart leaped into his throat when he saw all of them from Stephanie, and a few calls and texts from a number that was familiar but he didn’t recognize. What had happened?

But he calmed down after he realized if something was really wrong, someone would have come pounding on the door of the workshop…and then he smiled. The familiar number might be Leslie Nakano’s. It probably was, after all, checking in after last night…

Like a responsible father, though, he read the six texts from Stephanie first.

Mrs. Delton’s car won’t start. She really wants to be here for the pics. I told her you’d pick her up. Okay, Dad? Followed by winky face and laughing face.

The rest of the texts were along the same line: Dad? Can you please get back to her? I told her you’d pick her up.

Where are you????????? You get mad if I don’t answer YOUR texts right away!

And so on.

And the semi-familiar number…not Leslie Nakano, but Emily Delton.

With a sigh, Declan responded to Emily’s text. Sure. I’ll be there at 5:50 to pick you up. Sorry for delay. Was working.

Emily responded immediately with her thanks, and that she’d see him then.

Dec managed to put away his work, shower, shave, pick out something decent to wear, and get out the door just in time. It was only then he realized he hadn’t eaten since the coffee and peanut-butter-slathered toast he’d had at eight that morning. A two-dollar granola bar would be pretty good about now—but he’d left without snagging one. If there were even any left.

And he was almost to Emily’s when he remembered he hadn’t brought the piece he’d been working on that he wanted to show Leslie.

“Thank you so much for picking me up!” Emily said breathlessly as she climbed into his truck in a waft of perfume. She smiled at him as she buckled the seatbelt around a trim waist below great tits showcased in a black V-neck tee. She wore a black leather jacket too—for, of course, Michigan had shifted her mood from bitterly cold to pleasantly cool since last night. “Brooklyn would have been so disappointed if I wasn’t there to take pictures. You know how they are about things like this.”

Right. The girls who had cell phone cameras attached to their hands like another appendage and took photos of everything would have been traumatized if their parents missed the chance to take even more pictures of them…

But Declan didn’t say a thing. He was happy to go and take pictures of Stephanie and her friends tonight—and even more happy that she’d asked him to. He just found it amusing that anyone would think the moment would be lost if one parent missed the photo-taking opportunity.

“What’s wrong with your car?” he asked.

“I’m not really sure,” she said. “It wouldn’t start, and then it kind of did and then sounded really rough…I thought it might be better if I didn’t try and drive it tonight. Just in case I couldn’t get it started when it was time to go home after dinner. You don’t mind driving me back after, do you?”

Uh. “Sure. No problem,” he said before he realized what he’d just committed to. “We’ll get you home,” he added vaguely.

Hell, he hadn’t even planned to go to dinner with the other parents after the picture taking…but then again, it would be a good idea to get to know the parents of the kids his daughter was hanging around with. And, of course, he was a small business owner, and you never knew where your next job was going to come from. And he hadn’t eaten, so he’d be ravenous by then (how long did these picture-taking events take, anyway?).

Still…Declan had an uneasy sense that he’d just been neatly manipulated into a situation he didn’t really want to be in.

He just hoped he’d have the chance to see Leslie as soon as he could escape from the clutches of teenager fatherhood.

* * *

Leslie clawed herself out of a deep sleep and looked groggily at the clock. Six.

She blinked, combing through the heavy shroud of sleep with effort. It took her more than a moment to assimilate that it was six p.m., not six a.m.

No, she’d already seen six a.m. today, unfortunately. She’d been more wide awake then than now.

Leslie sagged back onto her pillow, trying to work the sleep from her eyes and clear her thoughts. That was what happened when you took a three-hour nap late in the day—it didn’t want to let you go because it thought you wanted to sleep for a full seven or eight.

Nevertheless, five minutes later, she was in the shower and fully awake. And her mind was filled with thoughts of the events of yesterday and today.

She’d sent Orbra and Cherry home last night after one o’clock. “There’s no need for you to stay here. Joe Cap—why do you call him that?—said he didn’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

“But the broken window!”

“You can help me tape it up and then go on home. I’m going to lock everything up, set the exterior lights to stay on, put in earplugs, and have a good shot of bourbon. I’ll sleep like a baby.”

The two older ladies grumbled and argued, and didn’t agree to leave until Leslie faked them out by looking at her cell phone and pretending to have a text from Declan on it. She let them draw their own conclusions, but noticed it was a lot easier to get them to leave after that.

Then she did as she told them she would: fixed the lights to stay on, locked up tightly, installed earplugs and put on a sleep mask—and even turned on some white noise on her computer monitor. This was going to be her first night in the house since the ghost’s appearance Wednesday, and Leslie was completely fine if she slept through any supernatural activity.

She really did agree with Longbow, aka Joe Cap, that it had been a couple of teenagers who’d broken in, and was certain no one would be coming back. It was already after one-thirty.

But the best laid plans…

Leslie had fallen asleep. She was certain she had, for all at once she was awake.

Damn, she thought, her heart pounding as she felt…something. She’d closed the door to her office/bedroom suite. But when she got out of bed, she saw a faint light glowing beneath it. Her heart lurched up into her throat, but Leslie pulled out her earplugs and opened the door.

The chill filling the kitchen felt sharp and abrupt as she stepped out of her suite, and the soft sounds of music drew her toward the greenish-yellow light down the hall to the foyer.

Heart thudding, hands cold and damp, cell phone in hand (she had no idea why), Leslie padded silently and slowly toward the illumination. This time, when she came around the corner, the thing was not at the top of the steps, hovering on the balcony. Instead, it shimmered halfway up the staircase.

It stood there, silent and still. Through the terror she couldn’t quite control, Leslie discerned a shape. Tall, slender, willowy…it was a woman, in a long, slender gown—a nightgown?—that brushed her at mid-calf.

“What do you want?” Leslie asked, ruthlessly keeping her voice from shaking.

The image shimmered, shifted, and one hand lifted and pointed down the stairs…toward her. The face had eyes that glowed with anger, and the woman’s ghostly mouth opened in a large, dark rictus as she suddenly swirled into a ball of light and glitter and roared down the stairs toward Leslie. The sound of a scream—high and shrill, and yet dark and deep—filled her ears, echoing in the high-ceilinged foyer, reverberating throughout the house as the ball of light and spirit came toward her.

Leslie gasped and stumbled backward, bumping her head against the wall behind her as an unimaginable cold embraced her, filling her with ice and paralyzing her as if she’d been encased in an iceberg.

She couldn’t move, and all at once felt a rage and a fear rushing through her, squeezing and filling and heavy—

And then it was gone. Silent. The air was still. The world was no longer frigid. The room was dark.

And she could move.

Leslie staggered to her feet, panting, sweating, eyes wide, her phone forgotten on the floor.

“But you damn well didn’t answer me!” she shouted. “I can’t help you if you won’t—tell—me—what you need!” Her voice was unsteady as violent tremors suddenly overtook her. Her knees gave way and she sank back to the floor. Holy crap. Hohhhly crap.

Her phone was there, and she picked it up, ready to dial…

Who?

No. She wasn’t going to call anyone. She didn’t need anyone to help her. It was only a ghost. It had done nothing but terrorize the hell out of her, but she’d met executive board members who did that.

Leslie grinned weakly in the darkness. Once more, she pulled herself to her feet. This time, she walked out into the foyer and stood in the center of the room, looking around. Her hands were still shaking. It was still dark, for she hadn’t turned on the lights. The debris from the break-in had been cleared away, so she wouldn’t step or trip on anything.

“Why the hell didn’t you come out like that when they were breaking in tonight?” she demanded. “Maybe they wouldn’t have made such a mess!”

Silence.

Stillness.

Not even a shift in the air.

Leslie heaved a great sigh. “I guess you’re only a once-a-night trick, aren’t you, whoever you are?” she said, still to the room at large. “And thanks to you, I don’t think I’m going to be going back to sleep anytime soon.”

She turned, making her way to the kitchen, still holding her phone. As she came into the room, warmly lit by one soft light under the counter, her attention flitted automatically over the windows and stopped short at the sight of a black shadow right there.

Leslie gathered up to shriek, then immediately deflated. “It’s just the cat,” she told herself out loud.

The cat?

The one that had run away every time she came outside? It was sitting on the flower box right outside the window, looking in at her as if it had every right to be there. She couldn’t tell the color of its eyes, but they glinted as it looked arrogantly at her.

Leslie stared back at it for a moment, the trembling of her hands finally beginning to subside. “Well…all right, then. Fine. I could use some company.”

And that was how she’d ended up with a cat in the house that night. Surprisingly enough, once she opened the door and set down an open can of tuna mixed with cat food, the feline deigned to enter the kitchen and sample the gourmet offering.

Leslie sat at the kitchen table and watched it eat, her bare toes cold and her body still wanting to shiver violently beneath the boxers and t-shirt she wore. She snagged a hoodie and pulled it on and made herself another cup of tea.

“I guess it’s time for me to do some research,” she said to the cat—who indicated its disinterest by remaining bluntly tail-side toward her and finishing its meal.

The poor thing’s tail was half hacked off, with the top third hanging on by a thread. But the creature didn’t let that imperfection, nor the matting of its long hair, affect its arrogance.

“I sure hope you don’t have fleas,” she said, realizing belatedly that maybe it hadn’t been the best idea to let the thing inside. But there was something comforting about having another living thing here with her—as opposed to whatever unliving thing had been screaming at her in the foyer a few minutes ago. Her palms went damp again at the thought.

And so she allowed the cat to stay while she pored over her laptop at the kitchen table—searching for information about anything that might explain a ghostly presence at Shenstone House—till the wee hours of the morning. When she finally stood, stretching her aching muscles and yawning, the cat padded softly to the door in an unmistakable command. Its flag-like tail twitched impatiently.

“Very well then,” she said, and let him—she’d determined its gender when the beast had plopped onto the floor and yanked up a leg to wash itself with a complete lack of modesty—out. “See you…whenever. Thanks for keeping me company.”

Dawn had broken and Leslie looked longingly at her bed, but she knew she wouldn’t sleep—her mind was too keyed up, too awake. So she decided to clean up the speakeasy.

“Maybe I’ll find something that gives me a clue down there.” And now that it was daylight, she didn’t expect any ghostly presences.

She worked down there all day, pausing only to check her phone a few times for texts or calls. There were several from Cherry and Orbra, to which she replied that, yes, she was still alive, and no, no one had broken in. There were no calls or texts from Declan, but she hadn’t really expected any. Really. As far as he knew, her aunt had planned to spend the night and Leslie wouldn’t be alone.

Stephanie wasn’t coming over to work today either because it was the Homecoming Dance, and she needed all day to get ready—an opinion Leslie readily shared and supported. So she worked without interruption: cleaning, clearing out, organizing the place.

To her delight, she discovered more vintage clothing: a pair of shoes, two scarves, and something that looked like a woman’s dinner jacket from the Roaring Twenties—a long, loose coat that a flapper might wear over one of the beaded shift dresses that were popular. The one she discovered was made of silk with incredible beading and embroidery. It looked like it could have belonged to the fictional detective Phryne Fisher.

There were other vintage objects, many of them recoverable: pillows, knickknacks, glassware, and even a jeweled hair comb. There were four unopened bottles of whiskey, and countless broken ones. She eyed the untapped bottles and wondered if any of them were any good. Maybe Trib would know.

What she didn’t find was a safe or cache where Red Eye Sal might have hidden his jewels. And though she’d learned quite a bit about his history during her searches on the Internet, there was still a question as to what had happened to all of the jewels.

All the while she worked, Leslie blasted music. It helped to keep away stray thoughts of supernatural occurrences, and it kept her motivated and awake. But by two o’clock, her energy was lagging. She’d eaten a snack midmorning, but now she stopped and had a full meal, answered some email, put a new can of tuna outside for the cat, and then…took a blissful nap.

Now that she was showered and fully awake, Leslie decided to take the vintage clothing to Gilda’s Goodies and see if the proprietor was interested in them—and whether they could even be salvaged enough to sell. She called Gilda Herring, using Aunt Cherry as a reference, and the proprietor was ecstatic at the thought of seeing some vintage twenties clothing.

“The shop closes at six on Saturdays during off-season,” Gilda told her, “but I’ll be here till at least eight. Come on over.”

The cat—at some point, she’d begun to think of him as Rufus—eyed her speculatively as she climbed into her car, but made no move to gain entrance to either the house or vehicle, despite the fact that he should have been groveling in thanks for the tuna. The can had been licked clean.

“See you later,” she said, then drove down the curving, tree-shrouded drive. It wasn’t quite seven, but it was already nearly dark. Leslie had left the exterior lights on, and several more inside the house than she normally would have done. She knew she didn’t want to return to a black-windowed building.

Gilda didn’t look anything like Leslie had imagined. She was probably mid-forties, had sleek blond hair cut in a trendy style: scalp-short in back with a thick swath of bangs in front—and she wore a dress that looked like it was from the forties. Showing off Gilda’s goodies, of course.

“Let’s see what you’ve got here,” Gilda said, her eyes gleaming from behind lipstick-red cat’s-eye glasses…and she moaned with pleasure when she saw the dinner jacket. “Where did you find this?”

Leslie explained, and all the while Gilda was humming and sighing over the detail stitching and beading and sequins. “This is just gorgeous. Needs a little recovery work,” she muttered to herself, “but I can do that. I wouldn’t trust it to anyone else.”

She looked up suddenly. “I have to be honest, Leslie. Something like this probably belongs in a museum. Though I’d love to have it in my shop.” She grinned and bit her lip as she looked back down at the jacket. “We could sell a piece like this for probably about a thousand dollars.”

Leslie’s eyes widened. “I figured it might be worth a couple hundred…but wow. Let me think about that. In the meantime, can I pay you to restore it and get it back to shape?”

“It would be a pleasure— Oh, Regina!” Gilda looked up as the mayor’s wife poked her head into the office. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.” She smiled.

“I know,” said Regina. “But I was in the area and wanted to check up on that piece you’re fixing for me. Hello, Leslie. Oooh, where did you get that?” She’d seen the dinner jacket spread out on the table. “That’s incredible.”

“I know.” Gilda was gleeful as she explained where Leslie had found it. “I’m thinking late twenties. Maybe 1927. It could possibly be a Worth, you know. They weren’t putting tags on everything at that time.”

“If it’s a Worth, it would definitely belong in a museum,” Regina said. Her slender hand hovered over the silk, then dropped slightly—just enough to brush it with the tips of her fingers. “But I’d buy it in a heartbeat if it was available.” She looked up at Leslie. “It would have gone perfectly with that vintage dress Kristen van Gerste wore to prom. But she didn’t have anything like this.” Sadness lingered in her eyes.

“Speaking of Kristen van Gerste,” Gilda said, pulling out some tissue paper. “I heard Marcus Levin was back in town for the game last night. He did an interview with some of the alumni who played football.”

“He is, and he did,” Regina said, watching with interest as Gilda wrapped the dinner jacket in tissue paper. “We had dinner with him, Aaron and I—after the game, of course. It’s always nice to see former residents—especially ones who are now celebrities.” She laughed. “Aaron is very good about reminding them about where they came from, and how much we depend on tourism here in town. Personally, I keep hoping T.J. Mack will come back for a visit.”

“Marcus Levin? Why is that name familiar to me?” asked Leslie.

“He was the boy Kristen van Gerste had the big shouting match with at the prom,” Gilda replied, smoothing the tissue paper over the jacket. “Is he still as much of an ass as he was back then?”

“If he is, he hid it quite well beneath a very polished exterior,” Regina said.

Gilda burst out laughing. “Well, there’s my politically correct mayor’s wife!” She slid her hands beneath the tissue-wrapped jacket and folded the whole thing into thirds. Then she carried it with great reverence to a shelving unit and placed it there. “I should be able to get to it next week. Is that soon enough, Leslie?”

“Oh, sure. That’s fine. I’m not in any hurry.”

“So you didn’t find any sign of Red Eye Sal’s gems down in that speakeasy?” Regina said. She leaned against Gilda’s desk, crossing her arms over her tailored suit.

“Nothing,” Leslie said. “Not even a safe or cache where they could have been hidden. But I did find a pink velvet wrap. I wanted to bring it in for you to look at, Gilda, but it’s gone missing.”

“Gone missing?” Gilda frowned.

“Don’t tell me it was stolen! Leslie had a break-in last night,” Regina said to Gilda, then turned back to Leslie. “I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but of course I heard about it. Small town, mayor’s wife, you know. I’m very glad you’re all right, and that nothing else seems to have been taken.”

“Thank you.” Leslie smiled, but was a little put off by the fact that her business seemed to be so well known. “Well, the velvet wrap and a glove are missing, and I’m not sure whether they were taken then or not. But I was hoping you could date it for me. Not that it matters now anyway.”

“Well, a couple rules of thumb, just in case you find something else,” Gilda said. “First, look for machine serge stitching—see, like this. Although it can be found as early as the 1920s, it wasn’t all that common until the latter part of last century. And the tag, of course—any care instructions would be after 1971, so that’s an easy one. Any tags that are black and white would be before, say, 1930. That’s a place to start. Rayon—that’s popular from 1920s through World War II; nylon became popular after that. If there are undergarments, you aren’t going to see plastic boning or hardware until much later. It’ll be metal.” She paused and looked up as if startled. “Maybe a little more than you wanted to know. But maybe that helped? Do you remember anything about the velvet wrap?”

Leslie and Regina exchanged amused glances. “I didn’t see any tags on it, but I didn’t look that closely. It had a large crystal button for a fastener on it—just one in the front, I remember that.” Leslie shrugged. “I had put it aside to examine later, and then never got to it. I’ll keep that information in mind if I find something else.”

“Let me know if I can be of any help. But in the meantime—I’m starving,” Gilda said. “Want to come grab a burger at The Owl’s Roost with me, Leslie? It should be cleared out of Homecoming Dance students by now. I’d ask Regina, but burgers aren’t quite her style.”

“I’d love to. I haven’t eaten much all day,” Leslie replied. “You sure you don’t want to come, Regina?”

“Reggie won’t. She refuses to step foot in the Roost,” Gilda said with a grin. “Says the wine isn’t even a step up from Boone’s. What a snob.”

“I’ve got to meet Aaron anyway,” Regina said. “I just wanted to check in to see if you needed me for a fitting on that dress.”

“Probably not till Monday,” replied Gilda.

“No problem. I’ll see you then.”

Leslie waited while the shopkeeper locked up, checking her cell phone to make sure she hadn’t missed any calls. She had to admit she was a teeny bit disappointed Declan hadn’t reached out even by text all day…but then she remembered it was Homecoming. He’d probably been busy schlepping Stephanie around and hadn’t had a chance to even think of Leslie.

“I can’t believe how much warmer it is tonight than last night,” she said as they walked along the sidewalk. “I was in mittens and goose down and a big hat at the game.”

“That’s Michigan for you,” Gilda said. “Tomorrow we could have eighty-degree weather. You never know.”

“Wow. Trib’s is hopping tonight,” Leslie said as they approached and noticed people waiting outside to be seated.

“It’s Saturday, and Homecoming. All of the kids would have eaten there, and then gone on to the dance—leaving the adults to have to wait till later. That’s why I suggested the Roost.”

And apparently, the adults were just getting seated, for as Leslie walked by, she glanced in the large front window just in time to see a smiling, laughing Declan pulling out a chair for an equally smiling and laughing Emily Delton…in a very tight, very low-cut black t-shirt.

Well. That explained why she hadn’t heard a thing from him all day.