Taking a phone from his back pocket, Kevin scrolled through some photos. “Here’s one. I’ll send it to your cell.”

Sam took the phone from him and looked down at the woman in the photo. His breath caught as he recognized her.

“She’s an artist,” he heard Kevin say. “Her name is Lucy Marinn. She’s staying at Artist’s Point, has her own studio in town. She does stained-glass stuff … windows, lampshades, some mosaic stuff … she is cute, see?”

The situation was interesting, to say the least. Sam considered mentioning that he’d already met Lucy, that he’d walked to Artist’s Point with her the previous night. But he decided to keep it to himself for the time being.

In the taut silence that followed, Holly said from the table, “Uncle Sam, what about my soup?”

“Here you go, gingersnap.” Sam set the bowl before her, and tucked a length of paper towel at her neck.

With that concluded, he turned to face Kevin.

“So you’ll do it?” Kevin asked.

“Yeah, I’ll do it.” Sam gestured casually to the doorway. “I’ll see you out.”

“If you like Lucy,” Kevin said, “you should see her sister. Younger and hotter.” As if to reassure himself that he, Kevin, had still gotten the best of the bargain.

“Great,” Sam said. “I want this one.”

“Okay.” Kevin looked more puzzled than relieved. “I have to say, I didn’t expect you’d go along with it this easy.”

“No problem. But there’s one thing I don’t get.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s the real reason you broke up with Lucy? And don’t give me crap about wanting someone younger or hotter, because what this woman doesn’t have, you don’t need. So what is it?”

Kevin wore the bemused expression people sometimes had when they tripped on their own feet and turned around to check out some invisible obstacle on the sidewalk. “I just found out everything there was to know about her, and … it got boring. It was time to move on.” He frowned as he saw Sam’s faint smile. “Why is that funny?”

“It’s not.” Sam wasn’t about to explain that his amusement stemmed from the uncomfortable awareness that he was no better than Kevin when it came to women. In fact, he hadn’t been able to manage anything close to a long-term relationship, nor would he want to.

“How will I know what happens?” Kevin asked, as Sam shepherded him through the front hallway and opened the front door.

“You’ll find out eventually.” Sam saw no need to tell him that he was going to call Lucy that night.

“I’d rather know up front. Text me when you go out with her.”

Leaning one shoulder on the doorjamb, Sam gave him a mocking glance. “No texts, no e-mails, no PowerPoint presentation. I’ll take your ex out, Pearson. But when I do, and what happens afterward, is my business.”

Nine

In the morning, Lucy checked her voice mail and listened to a message that Sam Nolan had left the previous evening.

“The condo’s still available. It’s got a great view of the port, and it’s only a two-minute walk from Artist’s Point. Give me a call if you want to check it out.”

It took almost until lunchtime for Lucy to work up the nerve to call him back. She had never been inclined to dither over what she wanted. But ever since the breakup with Kevin, she was questioning things she didn’t usually question … especially herself.

Over the past two years she had become entirely too wrapped up in her relationship with Kevin. She had let friendships drift, and she had set aside her own opinions and desires. Was it possible that she’d tried to make up for that by nagging and controlling Kevin? She wasn’t sure how to set herself on the right course, how to find herself again. But one thing was clear: There was no point in fooling around with Sam Nolan, who was a dead-end street where serious relationships were concerned.

“Does every relationship have to be serious?” Justine had asked, when Lucy had said as much the previous night.

“Why bother if it’s not going to go anywhere?”

“I’ve learned some great things from relationships that didn’t go anywhere. What’s more important, the destination or the journey?”

“I know I’m supposed to say the journey,” Lucy said glumly. “But right about now, I’m ready for the destination.”

Justine had laughed. “Think of Sam as one of those roadside attractions that turns out to be unexpectedly fun,” she said.

Lucy had given her a skeptical glance. “Like the world’s largest ball of twine? Or Carhenge?”

Although the questions had been sarcastic, Justine responded with unbounded enthusiasm. “Exactly. Or maybe one of those traveling carnivals with the fun twirly thrill rides.”

“I hate fun twirly thrill rides,” Lucy said. “You feel like you’re going somewhere, but when it’s over, you find yourself in the same place you started. Not to mention dizzy and sick to your stomach.”

At Lucy’s invitation, Sam dropped by her glass studio in the afternoon. He was dressed in worn jeans and a black polo shirt, his eyes a startling turquoise against his tan. As she welcomed him inside, a jumpy feeling awakened in the pit of her stomach.

“Nice place,” Sam commented, glancing at their surroundings.

“It used to be a garage, but the owner converted it,” Lucy said. She showed him her soldering and light tables, and stacks of trays filled with cut glass that was ready to be built into windows. One section of shelves was laden with cans of waterproofing compound and whiting powder, along with disciplined rows of tools and brushes. The largest section of the studio, however, was taken up with floor-to-ceiling vertical racks of glass. “I collect every kind of glass I find,” Lucy said. “Sometimes I’ll salvage some antique glass that I might be able to use in historic restoration projects.”

“What is this?” Sam went to a treasure trove of blue-green glass misted with silver. “It’s beautiful.”

She joined him, reaching out to run her fingers over a sheet of glass. “Oh, that was the score of the year, let me tell you. It was going to be used for some massive public art installation in Tacoma, but the funding fell through, so all this gorgeous experimental glass was sitting in some guy’s barn for more than twenty years. Then he wanted to get rid of it, and a mutual friend told me about it. I got the whole lot for practically nothing.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Sam asked, smiling at her enthusiasm.

“I don’t know yet. Something special. Look at how the color is flashed into the glass—all those blues and greens.” Before she thought better of it, she glanced up at him and added, “Like your eyes.”

His brows lifted.

“I wasn’t flirting,” Lucy said hastily.

“Too late. I already took it that way.” Sam wandered to the big electric kiln in the corner. “Some oven. How hot does it get?”

“It can go up to fifteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit. I use it to fuse or texture glass. Sometimes I’ll cast pieces of glass inside a mold.”

“No glassblowing, though?”

Lucy shook her head. “That would require the kind of substantial furnace that you would have to keep hot all the time. And although I did some glassblowing in the past, it’s not my forte. I like working on windows more than anything.”

“Why?”

“It’s … creating art with light. A way of sharing how you look at the world. Emotion made visible.”

Sam nodded toward a set of speakers on the worktable. “Do you usually play music while you work?”

“Most of the time. If I’m doing some intricate glass cutting, I need it to be quiet. But other times, I’ll put on whatever I’m in the mood for.”

Sam continued to explore, browsing among jars of colored glass canes and rods. “When did you first get interested in glass?”

“Second grade. My father took me to visit a glassblowing studio. From then on, I was obsessed. When I’m away from my work too long, I start to crave it. It’s sort of like meditation—it keeps me centered.”

Sam went to her table and looked down at a sketch she had made. “Is glass feminine or masculine?”

Lucy gave a surprised laugh, having never been asked such a question before. She considered it carefully. You had to let glass do what it would, partner it rather than control it, handle it with gentleness and strength. “Feminine,” she said. “What about wine? Is it feminine or masculine?”

“The French word for wine—vin—is masculine. But to me, it depends on the wine. Of course”—Sam flashed a grin at her—“there are objections to using sexist language in the wine world. Like describing a Chardonnay as feminine if it’s light and delicate, or saying a big Cabernet is masculine. But sometimes there’s no other way to describe it.” He resumed his study of the sketch. “Do you ever have problems letting one of your pieces go?”

“I have problems letting everything go,” Lucy said with a self-deprecating laugh. “But I’m getting better at it.”

Eventually they left the studio and headed to the condo, walking along the streets of Friday Harbor. Old-fashioned ice-cream parlors and coffee shops were tucked between glossy art galleries and trendy restaurants. The occasional blast from an approaching ferry did nothing to disrupt the humid, lazy atmosphere. Rich smells of sunblock and fried seafood overlaid the mixture of seawater and marine diesel.

The condo was part of a multiuse development on West Street, with a terraced pedestrian walk down to Front Street. A rooftop deck and huge windows contributed to the sleek and modern design. Lucy didn’t even try to conceal her awe as they entered the residence. It was furnished with a few contemporary pieces, the rooms trimmed with natural wood and sky-and-earth colors.

“What do you think?” Sam asked, watching as Lucy tested the view from every window in the main room.

“I love it,” she said wistfully. “But there’s no way I can afford it.”

“How do you know? We haven’t talked numbers yet.”

“Because this is nicer than any apartment I’ve ever lived in, and I couldn’t even afford those places.”

“Mark’s pretty eager to get someone in here. And this place wouldn’t work for just anyone.”

“Who wouldn’t love it?”

“People who don’t like stairs. People who want a lot more privacy than all these windows would allow.”

“I think it’s perfect.”

“Then we’ll figure something out.”

“What does that mean?” Lucy asked, instantly wary.

“It means I’ll make sure the rent is a number you can live with.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to be obligated to you.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“Of course I would, if I let you start doing favors for me. Especially financial favors.”

Sam’s brows lowered. “You think I would try to take advantage of you?” He approached her, and Lucy backed away reflexively until she felt the edge of the granite countertop against her back. “You expect me to show up someday twirling a mustache and wearing a black top hat, demanding sex instead of rent money?”

“Of course I don’t expect that.” Lucy fidgeted as he put his hands on either side of her, his palms braced on the counter. “It’s just … this isn’t a situation I feel comfortable with.”

Sam leaned over her without quite touching her. He was close enough that she found herself staring at his smooth tanned throat.

“Lucy,” he said, “you’re acting like I’m trying to push you into something. I’m not. If it turns out you’re interested in something more than friendship, I’ll be as happy as a damn bird with a French fry. But in the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t put me in the same category as as**oles like Kevin Pearson.”

Lucy blinked in astonishment. Each breath started knocking into the next, like a line of dominoes. “H-how did you know his name?”

“He came to the vineyard yesterday and said he had a favor to ask me. It was about you.”

“He … about … you know Kevin?”

“Of course I know him. I did his science homework all through seventh grade to keep him from beating the crap out of me in the school parking lot.”

“I … what did he tell you? What did he want?”

“He said he’s marrying your sister. He also said your parents aren’t going to cough up any money for the wedding until Alice works things out with you.”

“I hadn’t heard about that last part. Alice must be freaking out. My parents have been giving her money for years.”

Pushing away from her, Sam went to a tall stool and sat negligently. “Apparently Kevin and Alice think the solution is to set you up with someone. They want some guy to romance you until you’re so full of endorphins, you won’t have a problem with them getting married anymore.”

“And you’re supposed to be that guy?” she asked incredulously. “Mr. Endorphins?”

“Speaking.”

A suffocating blanket of outrage settled over her. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Sam responded with a lazy shrug. “Do what you want to do.”

“Even if I wanted to, there’s no way I would go out with you now. They would laugh at me behind my back and talk about how gullible I was.”

“But you’d be laughing at them,” Sam pointed out.

“I don’t care. I’d rather avoid the whole thing.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll tell them you wouldn’t go for it, that I’m not your type. But don’t be surprised if they try to set you up with someone else.”

Lucy couldn’t hold back a disbelieving laugh. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever … Why can’t they just leave me alone?”

“Apparently,” Sam said, “your parents will only approve of Alice’s wedding—and start giving her money again—when one condition has been met.”

“What condition is that?”

“Your happiness.”

“My God,” Lucy exclaimed in exasperation, “my family is so bizarre.”