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wandered back to her greenhouses, gave herself the pleasure of puttering. Seeds she'd planted over the winter were now young plants, and doing nicely. She'd begin to harden them off in the next few days, she decided.

She circled back around, stopped to fill the bird feeders she shared with Mac. The air had already started to cool by the time she went back in. When the sun set, she thought, it would be chilly. On impulse, she got out a pot. Then minced, chopped, poured, tossed in cubes of herbs she'd frozen the summer before. With a kettle of soup simmering, she went back up to finish her orders. An hour later, she came down to stir, then glanced toward the window as she heard a car. Surprised, pleased, she hurried to the door to greet Jack.

"Well, hi."

"I had a meeting, and managed to wrap it up early. I left my jacket here again, so I thought I'd swing by on my way . . . You're cooking?"

"I took a walk, and it started cooling off, which put me in the mood for kitchen sink soup. There's plenty, if you're interested."

"Actually, I was . . . There's a ball game on tonight, so - "

"I have a television." She stepped in, straightened his tie, with a secret smile. "I allow it to broadcast ball games."

"Really?"

She gave his tie a little tug. "You can taste the soup. If it doesn't appeal, I'll get your jacket and you can watch the ball game at home."

She strolled off, went back to stirring. When he followed, she glanced over her shoulder. "Lean over, open up."

He did just that so she held the tasting spoon to his lips.

"It's good." His eyebrows lifted in surprise. "It's damn good. How come I never knew you could make soup?"

"You never stopped by to get your jacket after you wrapped up a meeting early. Do you want to stay for dinner?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"It needs about an hour more. Why don't you open a bottle of cab?"

"Okay." Now he leaned down, kissed her. Paused, kissed her again, softly, slowly. "I'm glad I swung by."

"Me, too."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE MEXICAN AND AMERICAN FLAGS FLEW THEIR PROUD colors as Emma's Mexican mother and Yankee father combined cultures to celebrate Cinco de Mayo. Every year the expansive grounds offered games, from lawn bowling and badminton to moon bounces and waterslides. Friends, relatives, and neighbors played and competed while others crowded at picnic tables, diving into platters of pork and chicken, warm tortillas, bowls of red beans or chilis, guacamole or salsa hot enough to scorch the throat.

There were gallons of lemonade, Negra Modelo, Corona, tequila, and frosty margaritas to put out the fire.

Whenever he'd managed to drop by on the fifth of May, Jack had always been amazed at the number of people the Grants managed to feed. And the choices of fajitas and burgers, black beans and rice or potato salad. Flan or apple pie.

He supposed the food was just a symbol of how completely Phillip and Lucia blended. He sipped his beer and watched some of the guests dance to the trio of guitars and marimbas. Beside him, Del took a pull on his own beer. "Hell of a party."

"They pull out all the stops."

"So, is it weird being here this year with the hosts' baby girl?"

Jack started to deny it as a matter of principle. But hell, it was Del. "Little bit. But so far, nobody's called for the rope."

"It's still early."

"Brown, you're a comfort to me. Is it my imagination or are there about twice as many kids as there were last year? Year before," he remembered. "I couldn't make it last year."

"Might be. I don't think they're all related. I heard Celia's pregnant again though."

"Yeah, Emma mentioned it. You're here stag?"

"Yeah." Del smiled slowly. "You never know, do you? Check out the blonde in the blue dress. Those are some nice pins she's got."

"Yeah. I always thought Laurel had great legs."

Del choked on his beer. "That's not . . . Oh," he managed when she turned, laughed, and he got a better look. "Not used to seeing her in a dress, I guess." Very deliberately he turned in the opposite direction.

"Anyway, there are a bevy of sultry brunettes, cool blondes, and a sprinkle of hot redheads. Many of whom are unattached. But I guess the days of scoping the field are over for you."

"I'm dating, not blind or dead." The idea put an itch between Jack's shoulder blades.

"Where is Em?"

"She