“It wasn’t unusual for her to be gone overnight, was it?” he asked. “The detective’s report said she had a reputation as a party girl.”

“True, but she always made arrangements for Clay. No one who knew her believed she’d abandon him.”

“But that’s what the police decided happened, isn’t it?”

“For lack of any definitive information.” Gracie’s little pink tongue peeked out at the corner while she threaded her needle. “Everyone expected her to come back one day with some wild tale, but she never did.”

Dylan reached for his beer. The second bottle was now empty, too.

“Since David was a relative and the most interested party, he talked Social Services into letting him keep Clay. He was well-known to them through his work with abused children at County Hospital.”

“How do you fit into the picture?”

“David and my mother kept company for a long time before they got married. The four of us spent a lot of time together. Mom or Gran watched Clay after school, or Clay spent the night with us if David got called out. When we were older, Clay and I worked in David’s office, afternoons and on weekends. Clay’s career choice stems from a classic case of hero worship.”

“For you, too?” Her own case of hero-worship for the good doctor seemed huge. He nodded at the printing on her shirt.

“Probably.” Her gaze shifted from her sewing to some point in the past. “Clay always liked the science part of it. My interest was more empathetic. I knew early on that I wanted to work with children and be a pediatrician.”

Her accomplishments seemed unending to someone whose acquaintances specialized in acquiring the latest gadgets and avoiding photographers at the hottest nightspots. “How did you manage it?”

He basked in a surprising pool of contentment while waiting for her answer. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked a woman who didn’t work for him about her job. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat in someone’s kitchen, having a beer and shooting the breeze. Maybe during college with Ryan’s family in St. Louis. And more recently, his friend Wyatt’s home was kitchen-centric.

Despite the tension hovering between him and Gracie on the subject of his father and Clayton, Dylan felt right at home.

“I always had the emotional support of my family. The financial support, too, when they could swing it. College was fun. Med school was a backbreaking grind, but once I set a goal, I work hard on achieving it.”

Chapter Eight

Dylan admired the hell out of Gracie’s commitment. While wondering why he was so fascinated, he caught himself watching and waiting for the tip of her tongue to reappear. Tongues that weren’t actively being used on his body had never fascinated him before.

Unusually relaxed after only two beers, he slouched lower in his chair and folded his arms. “How does that scientific, medical part of your personality fit in with all of this artistic stuff you do?”

She looked up at him with her needle poised mid-stitch, a crease between her brows. “I’m not good at artistic stuff.”

“Are you kidding?” He twitched with annoyance that she dismissed her talents so lightly.

“If you’d ever seen real artistry, you’d know.”

“I’ve seen enough.”

“Really?” The expectant look on her face revealed how important his answer was to her.

He’d never have suspected her of needing reassurance. Gracie presented herself as the most self-assured, opinionated, and independent woman he’d ever met.

“I don’t know many people who possess the variety of skills you have.”

“That’s sad.”

“Tell me about it.” He slouched lower.

“What about you? Do you have any worthwhile skills?”

“Not compared to yours.” He’d never tell her, but he’d fainted after stumbling upon Natalie’s cat having kittens when he was ten. “In my spare time I climb rocks and mountains, race fast cars, and scuba-dive.”

Gracie sniffed. “All that proves is that you have a healthy bank account, decent athletic ability, and a daredevil’s disrespect for life and death situations.”

He wasn’t sure she’d be any more impressed with his next revelation, but he offered up the hobby he was most proud of. “I fly airplanes.”

Her needle stopped mid-stitch, and her eyes widened with something akin to horror. “Why would you want to do that?”

No one but his mother had ever asked him that question. Tilting his head, he tugged on his ear while he considered. “For the challenge, I guess. And the power. When you pilot a plane, you’re in complete control. And the awesome beauty of the earth from five-thousand feet manages to put all of life’s annoying details into perspective.”

If her disapproval made her any more rigid, she’d snap in two. “Hmm.” Her lips had disappeared into a tight seam. She concentrated on her sewing for a few moments, but finally admitted, “I’ve never enjoyed flying.”

“Why not?”

“It’s never been diagnosed by a professional, but I guess it’s because my father was killed in a plane crash.”

The simplicity of the statement amplified the depth of her loss more forcefully than a bout of histrionics. “That would probably do it.” Practical Gracie, with her feet on the ground. No point in arguing with a mind closed by fear, but surely she could see the boundaries she set for herself. “I’m surprised you let the past limit you that way.”

“It’s not just because of my father. You have to be aware of how many planes crash every year.”

“Which is one of the reasons I prefer to fly myself. I have more confidence in my own ability than I do in someone else’s.”

“I’m sure most pilots feel that way, but what good does it do their family and friends if the pilot is dead?” Her eyes flashed.

“Everything in life is a risk. Do you know how many deaths occur on the highways?”

“You aren’t seriously comparing the difficulty of driving an automobile with piloting an aircraft, are you?”

“No, but I’ve been flying since I was sixteen in all different kinds of airplanes. I’m instrument-certified and a certified instructor, and I’ve logged thousands of hours of flight time.”

“There are still a lot of factors involved that you can’t control.”

“All pilots from weekend hobbyists to NASA astronauts know it’s important to factor those uncontrollable elements into the equation and then use their best judgment. We do it because we love to fly, and we think the pleasure is worth the risk.” He was annoyed to find himself trying to convince her instead of shutting the hell up.

“If you’d like to give it a try, I’d be happy to take you up with me.” Where had that come from? Flying was his private domain. He rarely took anyone up with him.

“Yeah, right.”

Since his piloting skill hadn’t impressed her, he decided to move on to the one thing he could do that most people found enviable. “Maybe you’ll like this one better,” he said, although he doubted it. “I have an uncanny knack for investing other people’s money.”

“Oh, yeah, in your grandfather’s brokerage, right?” She leaned forward, ready to question the golden goose for financial tips. The all-too-typical gleam of greed in her eyes stabbed Dylan with disappointment.

“Almost everyone around here works hard,” she said, “but many of the townspeople have a hard time making ends meet. It would be great for them to have some tips from a successful financial adviser. Would you consider speaking at a town meeting?”

The knowledge that her interest in his moneymaking ability wasn’t self-serving sent a burst of relief gushing through him. “It looks like the town’s undergoing a revitalization without my help.” He considered getting another beer but decided to stay where he was and watch for a tongue sighting instead.

“It was a slow recovery after Old Maine Furniture closed.” Her tongue peeked out and a sense of satisfaction washed over him at having his patience rewarded. “A lot of people drifted away, but recently, some of the younger people have returned. Coming home with fresh ideas, new perspectives.”