Remember When

would have devastated most people. And he admired and appreciated her flat-out honesty about her reaction to him and what was brewing between them.
    The fact was, under other circumstances, he could see himself diving headfirst into a relationship with her, burning his bridges, casting caution to the wind or any number of clich‚s. Even given the circumstances, he was poised to make that dive. He couldn't quite figure out if that was a plus or a minus.
    But side benefit or obstacle to the goal, it was time to get back in the game.
    "You lost a lot of stuff," he commented.
    "I can always get more stuff." But she felt a little tug of sorrow at the wide chip in the Derby jug she'd kept on the dining room server. "I got into the business because I like to collect all manner of things. Then I realized I didn't need to own them so much as be around them, see them, touch."
    She ran her finger down the damaged jug. "And it's just as rewarding, more in some ways, to buy and sell, and see interesting pieces go to interesting people."
    "Don't dull people ever buy interesting pieces?"
    She laughed at that. "Yes, they do. Which is why it's important not to become too attached to what you plan to sell. And I love to sell. Kaching."
    "How do you know what to buy in the first place?"
    "Some's instinct, some's experience. Some is just a gamble."
    "You like to gamble?"
    She slid a glance over and up. "As a matter of fact."
    Oh yeah, he thought, he was poised and rolling up to his toes on the edge of the cliff. "Want to blow this joint and fly to Vegas?"
    She arched her eyebrows. "And if I said sure, why not?"
    "I'd book the flight."
    "You know," she said after a moment's study, "I believe you would. I think I like that." The O'Hara in her was already on her way to the airport. "But unfortunately, I can't take you up on it."
    And that was the Tavish. "How about a rain check?"
    "You got it. Open-ended." He watched her place a few pieces that had survived the break-in.
    Candlesticks, an enormous pottery bowl, a long flat dish. He had a feeling she'd put them precisely where they'd been before. There would be comfort in that. And defiance.
    "You know, looking around at all this, it doesn't seem like a simple break-in. If that can be simple when it's your place. It sure doesn't strike me as a standard grab-and-run. It feels more personal."
    "Well, that goes a long way to relieving my mind."
    "Sorry. Wasn't thinking. Actually, you don't seem particularly spooked."
    "I slept with the light on last night," she admitted. "Like that would make a difference. It doesn't do any good to be spooked. Doesn't change anything or fix anything."
    "An alarm system wouldn't hurt. Something a little more high-tech than the canine variety," he added, looking down at where Henry snored under the dining room table.
    "No. I thought about that for about five minutes. An alarm system wouldn't make me feel safe.
    It'd just make me feel like I had something to worry about. I'm not going to be afraid in my own home."
    "Let me just push this button a little more before we let it go. Do you think this could've been somebody you know? Do you have any enemies?"
    "No, and no," she answered with a careless shrug as she scooted the ladder-back chairs back to the table. But she heard Willy's words in her head: He knows where you are.
    Who knew?
    Daddy?
    "Now I've got you worried." He tipped her face up with a finger under her chin. "I can see it."
    "No, not worried. Disconcerted, maybe, at the idea that I could have enemies. Ordinary shopkeepers in small Maryland towns shouldn't have enemies."
    He rubbed his thumb along her jaw. "You're not ordinary."
    She let her lips curve as his came down to meet them. He had no idea, she thought, how hard she'd worked for nearly half her life to be ordinary.
    His hands were sliding over her hips when her phone rang. "You hear bells?" he asked.
    She drew back with a little laugh and pulled the phone out of her pocket. "Hello? Hi, Angie." As she listened, she shifted the chipped jug a half inch on the server. "Both pieces? That's wonderful.
    What did... Uh-huh. No, you did exactly right. It's called a davenport because a small desk was designed for a Captain Davenport back in the 1800s and it stuck, I guess. Yes, I'm fine. Really, and yes, this certainly perks me up. Thanks, Angie. I'll talk to you later."
    "I thought a davenport was a couch," Max said when she stuck the phone back in her pocket.
    "It is, or a small sofa that often