High Noon

thought, sure it’s a shortcut, a curiosity-satisfying one. But sometimes you want to go the long way around. You get to find out about somebody from the source, maybe over some type of food or drink. And if you’re wondering, yes, I’m hitting on you.”
    “I’m a trained observer. I don’t have to wonder when I know. I appreciate the honesty, and the interest, but—”
    “Don’t say ‘but,’ not right off the bat.” He bent down, picked up a hairpin that must have fallen out of her hair earlier, handed it to her. “You could consider it a public service. I’m the public. We could exchange life stories over that some sort of food and drink. You could name the time and the place. We don’t like what we hear, what’s the harm?”
    She dropped the hairpin in with her paper clips. “Now you’re negotiating.”
    “I’m pretty good at it. I could just buy you a drink. That’s what—thirty minutes? A lot of people spend more time than that picking out a pair of shoes. Half an hour after you’re finished work, or off-duty, whatever you call it.”
    “I can’t tonight. I have plans.”
    “Any night in the foreseeable future you don’t have plans?”
    “Plenty of them.” She swiveled gently back and forth in her chair, studying him. Why did he have to be so cute, and so appealing? She really didn’t have time for any of this. “Tomorrow night, nine to nine-thirty. I’ll meet you at your bar.”
    “Perfect. Which bar?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You don’t want to go to Dunc’s—weird after yesterday, and it’s loud and full of guys arguing over sports. Swifty’s.”
    “You own Swifty’s?”
    “Sort of. You’ve been there?”
    “Once.”
    His brows drew together. “You didn’t like it.”
    “Actually, I did. I didn’t like my companion.”
    “If you want to pick somewhere else—”
    “Swifty’s is fine. Nine o’clock. You can spend part of the thirty minutes explaining how you ‘sort of’ own a couple of bars and an apartment building.”
    He used the smile again when she rose to signal his time was up. “Don’t change your mind.”
    “I rarely do.”
    “Good to know. See you tomorrow, Phoebe.”
    A mistake, she told herself when she watched him walk away. It was probably a mistake to make any sort of a date with a lanky, charming man with soft blue eyes, especially one who had those little tugs going on in her belly when he smiled at her.
    Still, it was only half an hour, only a drink.
    And it had been a long time since she’d carved out half an hour to make a mistake with a man.
     
    Phoebe dragged into the house just after seven with a bag of groceries, a loaded briefcase and a serious case of frazzled nerves. The car she wasn’t at all sure she could replace had limped to a shuddering halt a block from the station house.
    The cost of having it towed would eat a greedy chunk of the monthly budget. The cost of having it repaired made the possibility of bank robbery more palatable.
    She dumped her briefcase just inside the door, then stood staring around the elegant and beautiful foyer. The house, for all its grandeur, cost her nothing. And though nothing was a relative term, she knew even if it were possible to move, she couldn’t afford it, on any terms. It was ridiculous to live in a damn mansion and not know how to manage to pay to repair an eight-year-old Ford Taurus.
    Surrounded by antiques, by art, by silver and crystal, by beauty and grace—none of which she could sell, hock or trade. To live in what could be construed as luxury, and have a tension headache over a goddamn car.
    Leaning back against the door, she shut her eyes long enough to remind herself to be grateful. There was a roof over her head, over her family’s head. There always would be.
    As long as she followed the rules laid down by a dead woman.
    She straightened, buried the anxiety deep enough so it wouldn’t show on her face. Then she carried the grocery bag through the house to the kitchen.
    There they were. Her girls. Carly at the kitchen table, tongue caught in her teeth as she struggled over homework. Mama and Ava at the stove putting finishing touches on dinner. Phoebe knew the rule of thumb was that two women couldn’t share a kitchen, but these two managed just that.
    And the room smelled of herbs and greens and females.
    “I told y’all not to hold dinner for me.”
    As Phoebe stepped in, all three heads turned. “Mama! I’m almost done with my spelling.”
    “There’s my