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“I can come with you. You must have other appointments today?”

“No, no. I took the day off and you’ll be more comfortable if I do it here,” Tessa said. “It’s no problem.”

Tessa got up and headed toward the door, and Rayna Jo returned to the settee. “So what’s really going on? You’re acting strange. What’s with all of you?”

That evening Oz sat in Richard Teeks’s study, trying to write the eulogy Devon had requested. He’d hoped the setting would inspire him, but instead he kept getting distracted by the memories the house held.

Memories of Richard were few and far between. The man had been there in the peripheral, but now, in light of what had happened, Oz suspected it wasn’t the first time the man had strayed.

He forced his mind away from the personal side of Rayna Jo’s marriage and focused on the task at hand.

As a professional author, it should’ve been easy. He wrote thriller fiction. He made up complicated stories that had plenty of twists and turns and surprises to keep his readers reading until the very last page.

But whenever he put pen to paper, the words just weren’t there for Richard. How could he put a positive spin on something that hurt the people he loved? Devastated Rayna Jo to the point she couldn’t cope?

He tossed the pen down and leaned back in the tufted leather chair. Richard Teeks had always struck him as being a little too… smooth. Always “on.”

The girls were smart. And Dara… he’d be surprised if she wasn’t using her cyber expertise to track down every bit of information she could regarding her father’s other life.

The door to the study opened, and he looked up to see Rayna Jo walk in. Her smile fell when she saw him, but she quickly forced it back into place.

“I’m sorry. I saw the light and thought Richard had finally made it home.”

Oz sat forward in the chair, deftly sliding a sheet of blank paper over his failed attempts. “Uh, no. Just me. Dara and Devon said I could use the office.”

“Of course. Are you writing? Tell me about your latest book. I just know you’re going to sell to New York soon. I’ve read your articles in the newspaper and they’re quite good.”

He hadn’t written for the paper in five years, not since quitting his day job to write full-time. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“May I read it?”

“Uh, no. Don’t take offense but I’m particular. I don’t like to show my work before it’s ready.”

“Of course. I understand.” Rayna Jo tilted her head to the side, her gaze narrowing on him. “Oscar, I know you’re worried about Devon moving to New York but there’s no need. She’s excited about the job offer, but there’s no guarantee the internship will turn into anything permanent. She’ll be back before you know it. Just let her enjoy her moment in the spotlight knowing we’ve bought the dress and the church is booked. It’ll all work out fine. You’ll see.”

Her words gutted him and brought back a similar conversation she’d had with him when the Babes had thrown an engagement party for them, held the day after Devon had received the job offer for the network she still worked for today.

Devon had pitched herself as part of a major online marketing recruitment without telling him because, according to her, she hadn’t expected to win.

But she had won. And they’d started fighting as soon as she’d told him and kept fighting right up until she asked him to move to New York City and leave his home and life behind.

The following day at the party, Rayna Jo had found him alone, struggling to control his frustration after yet another round with Devon.

“Oh, dear. Did I say something wrong?” Rayna Jo asked.

Snapped back to the present by the question, Oz managed a smile and stood. “Not at all. It’ll work out if it’s meant to, right?”

“Exactly,” she said in her soothing voice, relief smoothing her features that she hadn’t said too much. “My mother used to say some people are just sea glass and sand.”

“How so?” he asked, curious.

“Well,” she said, coming deeper into the room, “it takes the pain of breaking and the grit of the sand rubbing the raw edges to make sea glass smooth and beautiful. People search for it every day, but they consider it trash unless it’s polished down and pretty.”

“So am I the glass or the sand?” he asked.

She tilted her head to one side, her expression softening to motherly love. “I hate to say it, Oscar, but you’re the glass, dear. Red glass.”

“Why red?” he asked, fascinated by the way her mind worked and the bits of story that were beginning to appear in his head.


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