her toes, a favorite rattle, a doll, reached for a mobile, blew bubbles at the camera. There were no photos of the two of them together, no photos of Tate or anyone else, just Isabella and the young woman who had to be her mother.
The latter woke an ache in Lily’s chest. She had the feeling that she was looking at the reason for Tate’s every frown, snap and growl.
Daddy’s not married, either .
Lily had tried not to think about Isabella’s statement, not to wonder how Tate had come to be a single father, but she felt in her bones that he was not divorced. No, these photos told her that Tate Bronson was widowed. Somehow his young wife had died. He had yet, however, to let her go. That became abundantly clear as Lily followed father and daughter into the roomy kitchen with its golden woods and rusty stone countertops.
While Lily sat at an iron and glass table, Tate and Isabella fetched a pot from the stainless steel refrigerator, fastened a piece of cheesecloth over a crock in the sink and slowly poured the contents of the pot into the crock. From where Lily sat, she could see through the dining room to the living area, where a large, gilt-framed wedding portrait hung. A very young Tate in cowboy hat, blue jeans and a tuxedo jacket ran hand-in-hand with Isabella’s mother, who wore a billowing, strapless white wedding gown, her long, curly red hair and a white veil flowing out behind them, across a field of golden waving grass much like that which surrounded the barn outside. Sunlight slanted across a cloudless sky, beaming down on the happy couple.
Lily’s heart literally ached for him. What had happened? How had Tate survived such loss? She felt silly and foolish, remembering her distress when some man she’d liked had failed to notice her or, worse, had shown an interest in her more vivacious younger sister. Tate had truly loved. Tate had been loved. His loss had been real. Lily’s had never been more than secret and imagined.
God forgive me for my petty self-centeredness, she prayed silently.
A giggle drew her attention back to the activities at the sink. The cloth was now piled with berries and leaves. Tate set aside the pot and twisted the cloth to remove all the juice before dumping the remains into the compost can, then he stretched a fresh piece of clean white cloth over the top of the crock. He did this twice more before the pot was empty. Isabella’s fingers were stained by the time they were done, but thanks to a dishtowel that Tate had draped around her neck, her clothing remained clean. Tate squirted dishwashing liquid into the pot and ran hot water into it then left it to sit while he and Isabella filled glasses with ice and ran the tea from a spigot in the crock. Isabella then proudly presented a glass to Lily. The tea was indeed blue, sweet and a bit minty.
“Lovely. What is it?”
“Dewberry,” Tate answered. “It was Eve’s grandmother’s recipe.”
She didn’t have to ask who “Eve” might be, not that she had a chance as the front door opened and a middle-aged couple entered, followed by a younger couple and a toddler. Tate introduced Lily to his parents. Ginny and Peter Bronson were both in their fifties. Ginny’s short, thick, ash-blond hair hid her silvering well, but Peter’s dark brown showed a liberal sprinkling of gray. Tate obviously got his dimples from his dad and his warm brown eyes from his mom, from whom he also apparently got his height, Peter standing little more than an inch taller than his wife. The young brunette and tall, dark-haired man with the lopsided nose turned out to be Tate’s older sister, Gayla, and her husband, Bud Lott, visiting from Kansas City with their two-year-old son, Jay. Everyone seemed surprised to find Lily there, but no one appeared unhappy about it.
“You’re one of the newcomers,” Ginny Bronson said.
“That’s right.”
“Well, don’t worry,” Gayla, Tate’s sister, quipped, “just because the whole town’s future is
The latter woke an ache in Lily’s chest. She had the feeling that she was looking at the reason for Tate’s every frown, snap and growl.
Daddy’s not married, either .
Lily had tried not to think about Isabella’s statement, not to wonder how Tate had come to be a single father, but she felt in her bones that he was not divorced. No, these photos told her that Tate Bronson was widowed. Somehow his young wife had died. He had yet, however, to let her go. That became abundantly clear as Lily followed father and daughter into the roomy kitchen with its golden woods and rusty stone countertops.
While Lily sat at an iron and glass table, Tate and Isabella fetched a pot from the stainless steel refrigerator, fastened a piece of cheesecloth over a crock in the sink and slowly poured the contents of the pot into the crock. From where Lily sat, she could see through the dining room to the living area, where a large, gilt-framed wedding portrait hung. A very young Tate in cowboy hat, blue jeans and a tuxedo jacket ran hand-in-hand with Isabella’s mother, who wore a billowing, strapless white wedding gown, her long, curly red hair and a white veil flowing out behind them, across a field of golden waving grass much like that which surrounded the barn outside. Sunlight slanted across a cloudless sky, beaming down on the happy couple.
Lily’s heart literally ached for him. What had happened? How had Tate survived such loss? She felt silly and foolish, remembering her distress when some man she’d liked had failed to notice her or, worse, had shown an interest in her more vivacious younger sister. Tate had truly loved. Tate had been loved. His loss had been real. Lily’s had never been more than secret and imagined.
God forgive me for my petty self-centeredness, she prayed silently.
A giggle drew her attention back to the activities at the sink. The cloth was now piled with berries and leaves. Tate set aside the pot and twisted the cloth to remove all the juice before dumping the remains into the compost can, then he stretched a fresh piece of clean white cloth over the top of the crock. He did this twice more before the pot was empty. Isabella’s fingers were stained by the time they were done, but thanks to a dishtowel that Tate had draped around her neck, her clothing remained clean. Tate squirted dishwashing liquid into the pot and ran hot water into it then left it to sit while he and Isabella filled glasses with ice and ran the tea from a spigot in the crock. Isabella then proudly presented a glass to Lily. The tea was indeed blue, sweet and a bit minty.
“Lovely. What is it?”
“Dewberry,” Tate answered. “It was Eve’s grandmother’s recipe.”
She didn’t have to ask who “Eve” might be, not that she had a chance as the front door opened and a middle-aged couple entered, followed by a younger couple and a toddler. Tate introduced Lily to his parents. Ginny and Peter Bronson were both in their fifties. Ginny’s short, thick, ash-blond hair hid her silvering well, but Peter’s dark brown showed a liberal sprinkling of gray. Tate obviously got his dimples from his dad and his warm brown eyes from his mom, from whom he also apparently got his height, Peter standing little more than an inch taller than his wife. The young brunette and tall, dark-haired man with the lopsided nose turned out to be Tate’s older sister, Gayla, and her husband, Bud Lott, visiting from Kansas City with their two-year-old son, Jay. Everyone seemed surprised to find Lily there, but no one appeared unhappy about it.
“You’re one of the newcomers,” Ginny Bronson said.
“That’s right.”
“Well, don’t worry,” Gayla, Tate’s sister, quipped, “just because the whole town’s future is
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