Alex brushed by him, carrying a vintage metal toolbox. As usual, he headed straight for the kitchen, where he would pour himself a scalding cup of black coffee, down it without ceremony, and go to whatever part of the house he happened to be working on. So far he had refused to take any money for his labors, despite the fact that he could have gotten a fortune doing the same work for someone else. Alex was a developer, but he had started as a carpenter, and the quality of his craftsmanship was impeccable.

Alex had spent hours on the house, skinning walls, repairing cracks in plaster, restoring wood molding, hardware, flooring. Sometimes he redid work that Mark or Sam had already finished, because no one could ever match his exacting standards. Exactly why Alex was so willing to expend so much of his energy on the house was something of a mystery to the other Nolans.

“I think it’s his idea of a relaxing hobby,” Mark had said.

“I’m all for it,” Sam had replied, “if only because he doesn’t drink while he works. This house may be the only thing keeping his liver from turning into Jell-O.”

Now, as he watched his younger brother cross through the hallway, Sam thought that the signs of stress and drinking were catching up with him. Alex’s ex-wife, Darcy, had never been what anyone would call a nurturing kind of woman, but at least she’d gotten him to take her out to eat a few nights a week. Sam wondered when Alex had last eaten a full meal.

“Al, why don’t you let me fry you a couple of eggs before you start working?”

“Not hungry. Just want coffee.”

“Okay.” Sam followed him. “By the way … I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the noise level down today. I’ve got a friend staying here, and she needs rest.”

“Tell her to take her hangover somewhere else. I have some trim work to do.”

“Do it later,” Sam said. “And it’s not a hangover. She was in an accident yesterday.”

Before Alex could reply, the doorbell rang again.

“That’s probably one of her friends,” Sam muttered. “Try not to be a dick, Alex.”

Alex shot him a speaking glance and headed to the kitchen.

Shaking his head, Sam returned to the front door. The visitor turned out to be a curvy little blonde dressed in capris and flats, and a sleeveless button-down shirt knotted at the waist. With her buxom build, her big blue eyes, and her chin-length golden curls, she looked like an old-fashioned movie starlet, or maybe a Busby Berkeley showgirl.

“I’m Zoë Hoffman,” she said brightly. “I’ve brought some of Lucy’s things. Is it an okay time to visit? I could come back later—”

“Now’s a great time.” Sam smiled at her. “Come on in.”

Zoë carried a huge pan of muffins that sent out a warm sugared fragrance. As she came inside, she tripped over the threshold and Sam automatically reached out to steady her.

“I’m a klutz,” she announced cheerfully, a buttermilk-blond curl dangling over one eye.

“Thank God you didn’t lose your balance completely,” Sam said. “I’d hate to have to choose between saving you or the muffins.”

She handed him the muffin pan and followed him to the kitchen. “How is Lucy?”

“Better than I would have expected. She had a pretty good night, but she’s sore today. Still on pain meds.”

“You’re so nice to take care of her like this. Justine and I both appreciate it.”

Zoë carried her va-va-voom figure in an innately apologetic manner, shoulders down and slightly forward. She was perplexingly shy for a woman with such flagrant beauty at her disposal. Maybe that was the problem—Sam guessed that she’d had more than her share of heavy-handed overtures from the wrong kind of men.

They entered the spacious kitchen, with its enameled stove set in a cream-tiled alcove, glass-fronted cabinets, and black walnut flooring. Zoë’s marveling gaze swept from the high trussed ceilings to the huge soapstone farmhouse sink. But her eyes widened and her expression went blank as Alex turned from the coffeemaker to face them. Sam wondered what she would make of his brother, who resembled Satan with a hangover.

“Hello,” Zoë said in a subdued voice after Sam had introduced them. Alex responded with a surly nod. Neither of them made a move to shake hands. Zoë turned to Sam. “Do you happen to have a cake plate I could set these muffins on?”

“It’s in one of those cabinets near the Sub-Zero. Alex, would you help her out while I go upstairs to get Lucy?” Sam glanced at Zoë. “I’ll find out if she wants to sit in the living room down here, or visit with you upstairs.”

“Of course,” Zoë said, and went to the cabinets.

Alex strode to the doorway just as Sam reached it. He lowered his voice. “I’ve got stuff to do. I don’t have time to spend chitchatting with Betty Boop.”

From the way Zoë’s shoulders stiffened, Sam saw that she’d overheard the remark. “Al,” he said softly, “just help her find the damn plate.”

* * *

Zoë found the glass-domed plate in one of the cabinets, but it was too high for her to reach. She contemplated it with a frown, pushing back the curl that insisted on hanging over one eye. She was aware of Alex Nolan approaching her from behind, and a hot-and-cold chill went down her spine. “It’s up there,” she said, moving to the side.

He retrieved it easily, and set the plate and dome on the granite countertop. He was tall but rawboned, as if he hadn’t had a good meal in weeks. The suggestion of cruelty on his face did nothing to detract from his profligate handsomeness. Or maybe it wasn’t cruelty, but bitterness. It was a face that many women would find attractive, but it made Zoë nervous.

Of course, most men made her nervous.

Zoë thought that with the task done, Alex would leave the kitchen. She certainly hoped he would. Instead he stayed there with one hand braced on the countertop, his expensive watch gleaming in the light from the multipaned windows.

Trying to ignore him, Zoë set the glass plate beside the muffin pan. Carefully she extracted each muffin and set it on the plate. The scent of hot berries, white sugar, buttery streusel, rose in a melting-sweet updraft. She heard Alex draw in a deep breath, and another.

Darting a cautious glance at him, she noticed the dark half-moon indentations beneath a pair of vivid blue-green eyes. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in months. “You can go now,” Zoë said. “You don’t have to stay and chitchat.”

Alex didn’t bother to apologize for his earlier rudeness. “What did you put in those?” He sounded accusatory, suspicious.

Zoë was so taken aback that she could hardly speak. “Blueberries. Help yourself, if you’d like one.”

He shook his head and reached for his coffee.

She couldn’t help but notice the tremor in his hand, the dark brew shivering in the porcelain cup. Instantly Zoë lowered her gaze. What would cause a man’s hand to shake like that? A nervous condition? Alcohol abuse? Somehow the sign of weakness in such a physically imposing person was infinitely more affecting than it would have been in someone of smaller stature.

Despite his irritable behavior, Zoë’s compassionate nature asserted itself. She had never been able to pass by a crying child, a hurt animal, a person who looked lonely or hungry, without trying to do something about it. Particularly a hungry person, because if there was one thing Zoë liked better than anything in the world, it was feeding people. She loved the obvious pleasure that people took in tasting something delicious, something carefully made and nourishing.

Wordlessly Zoë set a muffin on Alex’s saucer while the cup was still in his hand. She didn’t look at him, only continued to arrange the plate. Although it seemed very likely that he would throw the offering at her, or say something derogatory, he was silent.

Out of the periphery of her vision, she saw him pick up the muffin.

He left with a gruff murmur that she gathered was meant to be a good-bye.

* * *

Alex went out to the front porch, taking care to leave the front door unlocked. The muffin was cradled in his hand, the unbleached parchment liner slick with the residue of butter, the dome cobblestoned with streusel.

He sat on a cushioned wicker chair, hunching over the food as if someone were likely to rush forward and snatch it from him.

Lately he’d had a tough time eating. No appetite, no ability to be tempted, and when he did manage to take a bite and chew something, his throat clenched until it was difficult to swallow. He was always cold, desperate for the temporary heat of liquor, always needing more than his body would tolerate. Now that the divorce had gone through, there were plenty of women offering any kind of consolation he might want, and he couldn’t work up any interest in them.

He thought of the little blonde in the kitchen, almost comically beautiful, with her big eyes and perfect bow-shaped mouth … and beneath the tidily buttoned clothes, the voluptuous curves that approximated an amusement park ride. Not at all his taste.

As soon as he took a bite of the muffin, a saliva-spiking mixture of tartness and sweetness nearly overwhelmed him. The texture of it was dense and yet cakelike. He consumed it slowly, his entire being absorbed in the experience. It was the first time he’d been able to taste something, really experience a flavor, in months.

He finished it bite by disciplined bite, while a sense of relief flowed through him. The grooves of tension on his face eased. He would swear on his life that Zoë had put something in the muffins, something illegal, and he didn’t give a damn. It gave him a clean, good feeling … a feeling of sinking into a warm bath after a raw day. His hands had stopped shaking.

He sat still for a minute, testing the sensation, sensing that it would hold at least for a little while. Heading back into the house, he picked up his toolbox and slunk up the stairs toward the attic with catlike quietness. He was intent on keeping the good feeling, determined not to let anyone or anything interfere with it.

On the way up he passed by Sam, who was carrying a slender young brunette with big green eyes. She was swathed in a robe, one of her legs wrapped in a bulky splint. “Alex,” Sam said without stopping, “this is Lucy.”

“Hi,” Alex muttered, also not stopping, and he continued to the third-floor attic.

* * *

“Are you okay here?” Zoë asked Lucy, after Sam had left them alone to talk.

Lucy smiled. “I really am. As you can see…” She gestured to the gargantuan green velvet sofa, ice packs that Sam had settled around her leg, the cream-colored throw blanket tucked at her sides, and the tumbler of water he had set beside her. “I’m being very well taken care of.”

“Sam seems nice,” Zoë said, her blue eyes twinkling. “As nice as Justine said. I think he likes you.”

“Sam likes women,” Lucy replied wryly. “And yes, he’s a great guy.” She paused before adding diffidently, “You should go out with him.”

“Me?” Zoë shook her head and gave her a quizzical glance. “There’s something going on between you two.”

“There’s not. There won’t be. Sam’s very honest, Zoë, and he’s made it clear that he will never make a permanent commitment to a woman. And although it’s tempting to just let go and have fun with him…” Lucy hesitated and lowered her voice to a whisper. “He’s the worst kind of heartbreaker, Zoë. The kind that’s so appealing, you try to convince yourself that you could change him. And after everything I’ve been through … I’m not strong enough to be hurt again quite so soon.”

“I understand.” Zoë’s smile was warm and compassionate. “I think it’s very wise of you, Lucy. Sometimes giving up something you want is the very kindest thing you can do for yourself.”

Fifteen

After Zoë’s visit, Lucy relaxed on the sofa with her cell phone and an electronic reading tablet. Sam had packed fresh ice bags around her leg and brought her a tumbler of cold water before heading outside to confer with his vineyard crew. They were busy removing leaves to expose developing grape clusters to the sun, and hand-tilling the ground with spades.

“I’ll be out there for forty-five minutes to an hour,” Sam said. “My phone’s on. Call if you need something.”

“I’ll be fine.” Lucy pulled her face into a grimace as she added, “I have to call my mother and tell her what happened. It’ll take all my skills of persuasion to keep her from flying up here to check on me in person.”

“She’s welcome to stay here.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. But the last thing I need is for my mother to hover over me.”

“Offer still stands.” Approaching the settee, Sam bent to pet Renfield, who was sitting beside Lucy. “You watch over her,” he told the bulldog, who regarded him solemnly.

“He is good company,” Lucy said. “He’s certainly quiet.”

“Bulldogs aren’t generally barkers.” He paused and shot Renfield a chiding glance. “But there is the flatulence.”

Renfield reacted to the comment with a look of extreme dignity, causing Lucy to laugh. She reached down to rub the dog’s loose-skinned head as Sam left the house.

Although the morning wasn’t yet over, the day was already hot, the sun burning through a slack canopy of clouds. Screen windows on both sides of the house let in stray breezes from the ocean.

Lucy relaxed on the sofa and let her gaze travel around the beautifully finished room, the gleaming black walnut floors, the Persian rug woven in cream and sage and amber, the meticulously restored cornice molding at the seams of the walls and ceiling.

Picking up her cell phone, she dialed her parents’ number, and her mother answered.

No matter how Lucy tried to underplay the story, her mother sensed the truth, immediately launching into a state of excited worry.

“I’m coming. I’ll be on the next plane.”

“Mom, no. There’s nothing you could do.”

“That doesn’t matter. I want to see you.”

“You don’t have to. I’m being well taken care of, I’m totally comfortable, and—”

“Who’s taking care of you? Justine?”

“Actually, I’m staying with … a friend.”

“Who?”

“His name is Sam Nolan.”

After a perplexed silence, her mother said, “You’ve never mentioned him before. How long have you known him?”