After checking out Clayton’s glower and the older doctor’s stoicism, Dylan turned to the most receptive member of the group. “Thanks for letting me join you, Mrs. Lattimer.”

Her gray hair was curled and sprayed, presumably for her hospital visit or dinner out. She had on the kind of dress Dylan had only seen housewives from the fifties wear on television.

“Gracie shouldn’t have left you on your own,” she said. “I was planning to bring something home for you to eat.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble.” His gaze shifted toward Gracie, and she rolled her eyes.

“Left on your own?” Clayton lowered his voice after Gracie elbowed him in the ribs. “Tell me he’s not staying with you.”

“I can’t.” She rested her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand. “He is staying with us.”

“That’s just great.” Clayton’s lobster pliers hit his plate with a clank. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There hasn’t been time. You just got here.”

“Perhaps we should wait and discuss it later, dear.” Mrs. Lattimer looked around at the curious onlookers and nodded pleasant greetings.

A taut silence commanded the table as Jake appeared with Dylan’s food. “I’ll wager you’ll not have a better lobster dinner anywhere on the coast. I’m proud you chose Lulu’s for your first meal in town—not counting the donuts and coffee you bought this morning, of course. Melvin at the Stop’n’Shop bragged all over town about you being in there even before your taillights disappeared around the corner from his place. Har-har-har.” Jake slapped Dylan’s shoulder and transferred his attention to Clayton. “And this is a fine day for you, too, isn’t it? Seeing you two boys together like this reminds me of when Matthew and Arthur came in here all those years ago. They were about the same age the two of you are now.”

Dylan’s stomach churned. The detective and Lawrence had warned him that the locals all supported Clayton’s claim, but Dylan hadn’t realized how galling it would be to have the tale shoved in his face. Nothing could have made him more determined to disprove it, but a vocal denial in Lulu’s Lobster Pot seemed likely to add to the scandal rather than squash it.

Silence followed Jake’s pronouncement. While Dylan pressed his lips together to hold back his thoughts, the tension around them skyrocketed.

“I’m sure you’ll understand,” Gracie spoke up, “if neither of them cares to comment on the subject.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Jake pressed a sausage-sized finger to his lips. “But if you boys don’t mind, I’d like to get a picture of the two of you to put on the wall of fame beside your father’s and uncle’s.” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket. The townspeople gasped audibly at Jake’s brass. The action stunned even Gracie into speechlessness.

“Not tonight, Jake,” Mrs. Lattimer said sternly. “Let them eat in peace, please.”

“I’m finished here, anyway.” Clayton lurched to his feet. “Are you coming with me, Gracie, or staying with him?” He jerked his chin at Dylan.

“If David will make sure Gran gets home...” Gracie looked to the older doctor for confirmation.

“She can ride with me.” Dylan smiled benignly, eager to rile his supposed half-brother a bit further.

“Don’t worry, Gracie,” Mrs. Lattimer said. “Someone will make sure I get home safely.”

Gracie removed her plastic bib and came to her feet. Her napkin slid from her lap to the floor. When she leaned down to pick it up, her shoulder jostled the table, and her plate skittered toward a glass of water. The glass wobbled and Gracie, Dylan, and Clayton all reached for it.

“Whoa there,” Dylan said.

“I’ll get it,” Clayton said.

“Aah!” Gracie squeaked as three hands collided, and water splashed down her front.

Wet T-shirt time all over again.

“Oh, dear.” She dabbed at the ribbed cotton with one of the napkins thrust her way. “At least it was water and not butter. Come on, Clay, let’s go before I get up close and personal with David’s cherry cobbler.” She stopped and gave her stepfather a peck on the cheek. “Take care. I’ll call you tomorrow. See you later, Gran. Dylan, enjoy your lobster.”

“I’ll be along shortly, Gracie,” Mrs. Lattimer answered. “‘Night, Clayton.”

Dylan wasn’t sure if it was because she had elected to go with Clayton, because he knew how pissed Clayton was about him staying at Liberty House, or because he plain didn’t like Clayton, but he couldn’t resist adding, “See you at home, Gracie.”

But when Clayton responded by looping his arm around her shoulder in an all-too proprietary—and non-brotherly—way, Dylan regretted opening his big mouth.

“I don’t want him staying here,” Clay grumbled again as they pulled up outside the carriage house. His tone conjured up memories of the insecure boy Gracie had met all those years ago, overshadowing the accomplished doctor he’d become. Few others saw that abandoned-child side of him anymore.

“I know.” She was hanging on to her patience with a thread. “But it isn’t up to you.”

She had been in kindergarten and Clay in first grade when his mother disappeared and David took him in. He had been in desperate need of a friend, and even then Gracie liked being needed. If he had grown up wanting their relationship to be more than that, she had told him repeatedly that it would never happen. Still, he persisted. Most of the time, the attention was more annoying than flattering.

“Thanks for the stirring display of loyalty.” He slapped his palm against the steering wheel and turned toward her. “Whose side are you on anyway?”

“Yours, of course. Always.” She unhooked her seatbelt and opened the car door. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“You’re aiding and abetting someone who’s here to discredit me.” He joined her at the front of the car.

“I’m not aiding or bedding anyone,” she said, but Clayton scowled at the attempted humor.

“Don’t be shortsighted. Dylan can make it possible for you to get the real family you’ve always wanted. Remember when you wrote to Mrs. Bradford? This is what you hoped would happen.”

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into mailing that letter.” He followed her up the outside stairs to her apartment.

“Oh, come on.” She opened the door to an ecstatic MacDuff. He frisked about in a welcome-home-puppy-dance while she retrieved his leash from the hook by the door. “I encouraged you to write to her when you asked my opinion. I didn’t talk you into anything.”

“You could’ve tried to talk me out of it.”

An exasperated sigh slipped past Gracie’s lips. For a person of such exceptional intelligence, sometimes he was really dense. They trooped back down the stairs to walk MacDuff in the garden. “You’ve wanted your biological father’s identity confirmed your entire life. You need to know and you deserve to know. You know how important family history can be to your physical and psychological well-being.”

“Dylan doesn’t believe I’m his father’s son.” He kicked a clump of grass like a little kid. “He won’t even listen to my side of things.”

“Give him a chance. He doesn’t know anything about you except that you threaten the memory of the father he probably idolizes. At least he’s here. Letting him stay at Liberty will give you the opportunity to get to know him and present your case.”

“I thought I could do that when he showed up, but everything about him—his snotty attitude, his designer clothes, even his expensive haircut, for God’s sake—all make my blood boil.”

“But it’s in your best interest to set that aside. And while he’s staying here, I can keep an eye on him.”

Clay dropped down onto the gazebo steps and stretched out his long legs with a bark of disbelief. “What? You intend to spy on him?”

She pulled on the leash to bring MacDuff to heel. “I might.”