"Hi there. Ah, nice dog."
He seemed to take that as an invitation to race two wild circles around her, then press his nose to her crotch.
"Okay." She put a firm hand under his jaw, lifted it. "That's just a little too friendly." She gave him a quick rub, then a nudge, and managed one more step before the boy streaked screaming around the side of the house. Though he held a large plastic weapon in his hand, he was in full retreat.
He managed to veer around her. "Better run," he puffed out, an instant before she saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye.
An instant before she was shot dead in the heart, by a stream of cold water.
The shock was so great that her mouth dropped open but she couldn't manage a sound. Just behind her the boy murmured, "Uh-oh."
And deserted the field.
Seth, the water rifle in his hand, his hair dripping from the previous attack, took one look at Dru. "Oh, shit."
Helpless, Dru looked down. Her crisp red shirt and navy pants were soaked. The splatter had managed to reach her face, making the time she'd spent fiddling with it a complete waste.
She lifted her gaze, one that turned from stunned to searing when she noted that Seth looked very much like a man struggling not to laugh.
"Are you crazy?"
"Sorry. Really." He swallowed hard, knowing the laugh fighting to burst out of his throat would damn him. "Sorry," he managed as he walked to her. "I was after Jake—little bastard nailed me. You got caught in the cross fire." He tried a charming smile, dug a bandanna out of the back pocket of his jeans. "Which proves there are no innocent bystanders in war."
"Which proves," she said between her teeth, "that some men are idiots who can't be trusted with a child's toy."
"Hey, hey, this is a Super Soaker 5000." He lifted the water gun but, catching the gleam in her eyes, hastily lowered it again. "Anyway, I'm really sorry. How about a beer?"
"You can take your beer and your Super Soaker 5000 and—"
"Seth!" Anna rushed around the house, then let out a huge sigh. "You moron."
"Jake," he said under his breath and vowed revenge. "Anna, we were just—"
"Quiet." She jabbed a finger at him, then draped an arm around Dru's shoulder. "I apologize for the idiot children. You poor thing. We'll get you inside and into some dry clothes."
"No, really, I'll just—"
"I insist," Anna interrupted, herding her toward the front of the house. "What a greeting. I'd say things aren't usually so crazy around here, but I'd be lying."
Keeping a firm hand on Dru—Anna knew when someone was poised for escape—she guided her into the house and up the s
tairs.
"It's a little crazier today as the whole gang's here. A welcome-home for Seth. The guys are about to boil up some crabs. You'll stay."
"I couldn't intrude." Her temper was rapidly sliding toward embarrassment. "I just stopped by to drop off the utility-room key for Seth. I really should—"
"Have some dry clothes, some food, some wine," Anna said warmly. "Kevin's jeans ought to work." She pulled a blue cotton shirt out of her own closet. "I'll just see if I can find a pair in the black hole of his room."
"It's just a little water. You should be down with your family. I should go."
"Honey, you're soaked and you're shivering. Now get out of those wet things. We'll toss them in the dryer while we eat. I'll just be a minute."
With this, she strode out and left Dru alone in the bedroom.
The woman hadn't seemed so… formidable, Dru decided, on her visits to the flower shop. She wondered if anyone ever won an argument with her.
But the truth was, she was chilled. Giving up, she stripped off the wet shirt, gave a little sigh and took off the equally wet bra. She was just buttoning up when Anna came back in.
"Success." She offered Dru a pair of Levi's. "Shirt okay?"
"Yes, it's fine. Thank you."
"Just bring your wet things down to the kitchen when you're ready." She started out again, then turned back. "And, Dru? Welcome to bedlam."
Close enough, Dru thought. She could hear the shouts and laughter, the blast of music through the open window. It seemed to her half of St. Christopher must be partying in the Quinns'
backyard.
But when she snuck a peek out, she realized the noise was generated by the Quinns all by themselves. There were teenagers of varying sizes and sexes running around, and two, no three dogs. Make that four, she noted as an enormous retriever bounded out of the water and raced over the lawn to shake drops on as many people as possible.
The young boy Seth had been chasing was doing precisely the same thing. Obviously, Seth had managed to catch up with him.
Boats were tied to the dock—which explained, she supposed, why the number of cars in the drive didn't match the number of picnickers.
The Quinns sailed.
They were also loud, wet and messy. The scene below was nothing like any of her parents' outdoor social events or family gatherings. The music would have been classical, and muted. The conversations would have been calm and ordered. And the tables would have been meticulously set with some sort of clever theme. Her mother was brilliant with themes, and dictated her precise wishes to the caterer, who knew how to deliver.
She wasn't certain she knew how to socialize, even briefly, in the middle of this sort of chaos. But she could hardly do otherwise without being rude.
She changed into the Levi's. The boy—Kevin, she thought Anna had said—was tall. She had to roll up the legs a couple of times into frayed cuffs.
She glanced in the pretty wood-framed mirror over the bureau and, sighing, took a tissue to deal with the mascara smudges under her eyes caused by her unexpected shower.
She gathered the rest of her wet things and started downstairs.
There was a piano in the living room. It looked ancient and well used. The red lilies she'd sold Seth stood in a cut-crystal vase atop it, and spilled their fragrance into the air.
The sofa appeared new, the rug old. It was, Dru thought, very much a family room, with cheerful colors, cozy cushions, a few stray dog hairs and the female touches of the flowers and candles. Snapshots were scattered here and there, all in different frames. There had been no attempt at coordination, and that was the charm of it, she decided.
There were paintings—waterscapes, cityscapes, still lifes—that she was certain were Seth's. But it was a lovely little pencil sketch that drew her over.
It was the rambling white house, flanked by woods, trimmed by water. It said, with absolute simplicity: This is home. And it touched a chord in her that made her yearn.
Stepping closer, she studied the careful signature in the bottom corner. Such