SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club #4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,6

with her cap of silver hair as short as a boy’s. “You made my favorite.”

Her grandmother turned her head to kiss Harper’s cheek with enthusiasm. “I thought you might be visiting because you need a dose of my special elixir.”

Harper glanced over at her mother, who shot her a warning look. So Rebecca’s advice had not changed. She’d cautioned Harper against flat-out questioning Grandpop or Grandmom about the alleged irregularities at the farm. They wouldn’t want her to know and she shouldn’t want them to know she’d been motivated to visit out of worry.

“I feel my immune system growing stronger just taking in its mouthwatering scent.” When she’d come back to the States, run-down and barely over a bout of pneumonia, her mother had driven to Las Vegas with quarts of the stuff. It had saved Harper’s life, she’d thought then.

She didn’t doubt it now.

Crossing to hug her mother, she looked around the kitchen. The farm table was set for dinner. “What can I do?”

“For now, tell us about your trip,” Rebecca said, hugging back. “Did you have any trouble?”

“None at all,” Harper said, moving to the refrigerator to grab a pitcher of iced tea. Not for anything would she tell them about running into Mad. They had liked him all those years ago, even Grandpop, who maintained a healthy suspicion of the police to this day. Maybe they had even suspected that Harper loved him.

But she had never told them, never would tell them, why she’d left him.

Which didn’t matter anyway—the man had that wife and probably those kids…another thing she wouldn’t discuss with her family.

“I know a way to wipe that frown off your face,” her mother said now. “Come out to the kitchen garden and we’ll pick some fresh basil to garnish the soup.”

Linking arms, she drew Harper through the kitchen door. “I’m not frowning,” she said, surreptitiously rubbing at the line between her brows with her free hand.

“They must have been some heavy thoughts then,” Rebecca replied, leading her down steps into the small plot of land convenient for their personal use.

Struck by the sight, Harper paused. “Sunflowers.” She gestured toward the stately plants, the yellow petals spiky, the centers full with seeds. “They look so happy.”

Glancing around at the neat rows of herbs, the lettuces, the last of the beans growing skyward, she let herself feel happy too. Who couldn’t enjoy the moment as the final rays of the day’s sun warmed the air and bees buzzed in that lazy way they had? On the path to the full basil bush, her leg brushed some rosemary and its sharp, piney scent seemed to cleanse her mind. Only goodness grew here, she decided, smiling.

“It’s so good to have you home,” her mother said, almost echoing Harper’s thoughts.

And goodness continued through the evening meal, the four of them gathered around the table and digging into the fresh food made from their own harvest. Mary had devised the recipe years ago from a meal she and Grandpop had been served on the shores of Lake Como in Italy, and they reminisced about their travels, something they’d done semi-regularly in their younger years when they researched new items and varieties of produce.

“You should plan another trip, Grandmom,” Harper suggested. “Go to Italy again. Spain, the south of France. Now that summer is over, the planes and airports are less crowded.”

“Now is not a good time,” Grandpop answered.

“Oh?” Maybe he would share with her his concerns and she wouldn’t have to pussy foot around the subject like her mother suggested.

“We have Pumpkin Day coming up,” Grandmom said.

“Right.” How could Harper have forgotten? In September they picked their crop and before delivering them to market, they invited a local school to enjoy a day at the farm. It was a long-standing tradition. “But you definitely should think about packing your suitcases and seeing more sights.”

“Speaking of suitcases,” her mom said, standing to stack the empty bowls and plates. “Let’s get the dishes done and then get you settled into your room.”

Before long, the two of them climbed the stairs to Harper’s little haven in the attic. Within the confines of the small space, the wallpaper sprigged with old-fashioned posies, she took a good look at her mother. In her mid-forties, the older woman was fit from her days working the farm and from the early morning yoga stretches she did with an app on her phone. Her dark hair brushed her shoulders and she had the distinctive Hill green eyes as