Clare Murphy Brewster, he mused, mother of three, bookstore proprietor. Just an old high school friend who’d come home after an Iraqi sniper shattered her life and left her a widow.

He hadn’t come to see her, except in passing if she happened to be around. He’d have no business making a point to see the widow of a boy he’d gone to school with, had liked, had envied.

“Sorry for the wait. How’s it going, Beck?”

“What?” He tuned back in, turned to Laurie as the door jingled behind the customers. “Oh, no problem. Found some books.”

“Imagine that,” she said, and smiled at him.

“I know, what are the odds? I hope they’re as good for me getting an iced cappuccino.”

“I can hook you up. Iced everything’s the order of the day this summer.” Her honey brown hair scooped up with a clip against the heat, she gestured to the cups. “Large?”

“You bet.”

“How’s the inn coming along?”

“It’s moving.” He walked to the counter as she turned to the espresso machine.

Pretty little thing, Beckett mused. She’d worked for Clare since the beginning, shuffling work and school. Five years, maybe six? Could it be that long already?

“People ask us all the time,” she told him as she worked. “When, when, when, what, how. And especially when you’re going to take down that tarp so we can all see for ourselves.”

“And spoil the big reveal?”

“It’s killing me.”

With the conversation, the noise of the machine, he didn’t hear her, but sensed her. He looked over as she came down the curve of the steps, one hand trailing along the banister.

When his heart jumped, he thought, Oh well. But then, Clare had been making his heart jump since he’d been sixteen.

“Hi, Beck. I thought I heard you down here.”

She smiled, and his heart stopped jumping to fall flat.