"She called about half an hour ago."

"That isn't what I meant." Kate paused as Iona Osborn labored to the counter, her quad cane making a ka-chink-thud across the hardwood floors.

"How much are these?" Iona asked and set a bag of Doritos next to the cash register.

Kate pointed to the price clearly marked on the bag. "Four nineteen."

"It always had a sticker before."

Kate took in Iona's blue eyes, chubby jowls, and mile-high gray hair and forced a smile in place. Iona wasn't the first person to give her grief over the sticker issue. She wondered if there was a conspiracy to drive her insane. She took a deep breath and explained yet again, "Items clearly marked from the manufacturer don't need a sticker."

"I like having a sticker."

Kate held her hands palms up, then dropped them to her sides. "But the stickers were always the same as the clearly marked price."

"There's always been stickers on stuff."

Kate was giving serious thought to smacking a sticker on Iona's forehead when her grandfather interceded. "How's that hip?" he asked.

"I'm a little stoved-up. Thank you for asking." Iona's leather purse hit the counter with a heavy thunk.

"Have you thought about getting one of those power chairs like they advertise on TV?" Stanley asked as he rang up her Doritos.

Iona shook her head and dug into her bag. "I don't have that kind of money, and my insurance won't pay for it." She pulled out a wallet so full of cash and coupons that it had to be held closed with a rubber band. "Besides, I can't sit in one of those while I work all day at the diner." She searched all her coupons, then pulled out five one-dollar bills and laid them on the counter. "Would be nice though, if you provided one of those chairs for seniors like they do at that ShopKo down in Boise."

"That's certainly something to think about," Stanley said as he took the money and made change. "How much do one of those things cost?"

Kate glanced at her grandfather as she placed the Doritos in a plastic bag. He couldn't be serious.

"About fifteen hundred."

"That's not too bad, then."

He was serious. He wouldn't spend a dime to upgrade his bookkeeping system in order to make his life easier, but he'd blow fifteen hundred on a power chair that the kids in town would jump on and race around the store. "I don't understand you," she said as soon as Iona left. "You won't make your life easier, but you'll buy a power chair for the occasional customer. That doesn't make sense to me."

"That's because you're young and your bones don't ache when you get out of bed in the morning. You don't have trouble getting around. If you did, you might think differently."

That was probably true, so she let it go. For now. "When is Grace's dinner?"

"Tomorrow night."

Now the tricky question. "Is Rob going to be there?" Kate asked as if she didn't care one way or the other. But the reality was that if the answer was yes, she'd have to come down with cramps or something.

"Grace didn't say. I could ask her."

"No. I was just wondering. It's not important," she said as she grabbed the feather duster and headed toward the canned vegetables and fruits aisle. If Rob was going to be there, she'd have to suck it up and pretend he didn't bother her. That the kiss he'd given her hadn't affected her at all, which of course it hadn't. Sure, she'd felt little warm tingles, but that didn't mean anything. Lots of things gave her warm tingles. She couldn't think of any at the moment, but she would.

The jars of olives and jalapefio jelly she'd ordered had arrived the day before, and she placed them at eye level on the shelves. No one had purchased any of her gourmet items, but it had only been one day. Maybe she should take an hors d'oeuvre plate to Grace's dinner. If Grace liked the hors d'oeuvre, she might talk them up. Word of mouth was important to sales.

She wondered what Grace was serving, and if her house was as enormous as her son's. It wasn't.

The second Kate walked into Grace Sutter's home, she could tell a woman lived there by herself. The furnishings were comfy and cozy and soft. Lots of pastel colors and white wicker. Belgian lace, cut crystal, and fresh flowers. Very unlike her grandfather's house, and completely opposite her son's. The home was filled with the smell of roast beef and baking potatoes.

Grace greeted them at the door wearing black pants and a red sweater set. Kate felt underdressed in a jean skirt and her long-sleeve Banana Republic silk T-shirt. She handed Grace the hors d'oeuvre plate she'd made, and her gaze scanned the living room.

No Rob. She felt her shoulders relax and the tension in her back loosen. She wished she didn't care one way or the other, but for some reason he made her uptight and nervous. And again, not in a good way.

"Thank you, Kate," Grace said as she took the plate from her. "This was so thoughtful of you."

Kate pointed to each section of the plate. "Those are Italian olives, and I stuffed those mushrooms." Grace set the plate on a coffee table. "That's jalapeflo jelly," Kate continued, "over cream cheese. You spread it on the wafers. It's wonderful."

"I'm going to take your word on that jelly," her grandfather said as he popped an olive in his mouth.

Grace picked up the Delilah cheese knife and spread some of the cream cheese and jalapefio jelly on a cracker. She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. "That's quite good," she announced.

Kate smiled and looked at her grandfather. "Thank you."

"I still don't think it's right for people to make vegetable jelly," Stanley maintained and refused to even try it. He'd dressed for the dinner party in his gray permanent press pants, a blue dress shirt, and a gray sweater. Which was quite dressed up for him. Kate wasn't certain, but she thought her grandfather was acting kind of nervous. He kept folding and unfolding his arms and twisting the tip of his handlebar mustache. And he was wearing so much Brut that she'd practically had to ride all the way over with her head sticking out the car window like an Irish setter.

Grace showed them her collection of Swarovski crystal, and she gave Stanley three crystal penguins on a chunk of crystal ice to hold up to the light. The two of them looked at the prism of color spilling across Stanley's old, gnarled palm, and then they looked at each other. For one brief moment their eyes held before he lowered his hand, as well as his gaze. His cheek turned a slight pink, and he cleared his throat.

Her grandfather liked Grace. More than just a friend. More than he liked the other widows in town. When had that happened?

Kate snagged a few olives, then she moved to the shelves filled with photos. What did she think about her grandfather dating Rob's mother? She'd always thought she'd be happy that he was moving on with his life. Living again. Was she? She honestly didn't know.

The photographs on the shelves were three and four deep, and in the front sat a picture of a naked baby on a white lambskin. Another was faded and yellow, of the same baby sitting on a man's lap, whom Kate assumed was Rob's father. She popped an olive in her mouth and looked at Rob in a grade school photo, his hair in a crew cut, with a mischievous glint in his green eyes. A prom picture of him in a powder blue tux and his date in silver lame with enormous shoulder pads up to her ears. This time his hair was in some sort of spiked Duran Duran do with long bangs. But most of the photos of Rob were taken of him in different hockey jerseys.

In quite a few of the pictures, he was so young that his hockey jersey hung over his hands. In all of them his big green eyes were bright with excitement. There were action photos of him taking a shot or skating with the puck at the end of his stick. Others with his helmet low on his forehead, this time his eyes menacing as he delivered hits to opposing players. A magazine cover of him with his arms in the air, holding a stick over his head, his smile enormous. Testosterone practically oozed from the Kodak paper, a startling contrast to the lace curtains and pink wicker sofa.

Kate reached for a more recent photograph of Rob. He held a naked baby to his chest, his lips pressed to the top of her dark head. His daughter's delicate features against his raw masculinity.

The front door opened and Kate replaced the photo. She turned as Rob walked in and shut the door behind him. He wore a long-sleeved dress shirt, white, tucked into a pair of khakis with a razor crease. He carried a bottle of wine in one hand. The last time she'd been in the same room with him, he'd kissed her and put her hand on his crotch. She felt a wary little jump in her nerves, which disturbed her since she thought she should feel a lot more angry and indignant than she actually did.

Grace moved across the room toward him. "You're late."

"Store closed late." Rob gave his mother a hug. "Hello Stanley," he said, then he looked over the top of his mother's head, and his green gaze met Kate's. "Hello, Kate."

"Hello," she said, and she was pleased that her voice did not reflect the spike in her nerves.

"Dinner will be ready soon." Grace took the bottle of wine and looked at it. "I told you to get a Merot. This is a Chardonnay."

He shrugged. "You know I'm a beer drinker. I don't know squat about wine. I just bought the most expensive, figuring it had to be the best."

Grace shoved it back at him. "Take it in the kitchen and open it. Maybe Kate can show you how use a corkscrew."

She could, but she didn't want to. "Sure." She followed Rob through the dining room, her gaze skimming down the pleat in the back of his white shirt to where it tucked into his tailored pants. The khaki fabric hugged his behind, and two brown buttons closed the back pockets. The pant legs fell in perfect, straight lines to the hem, breaking at the heels of his soft leather loafers. He might not know wine, but he did know a thing or two about expensive clothes.