High Noon Read Free Page B

flicker of charm now, she noted. “This’ll be fine. You should go on home, Mr. Swift.”
    â€œDuncan.”
    â€œMmm-hmm.” She gave him a fleeting smile, then picked up her discarded jacket.
    â€œHey, Phoebe.” He made a bead for the door when she walked out. “Can I call you if I feel suicidal?”
    â€œTry the hotline,” she called back without looking around. “Odds are they’ll talk you down.”
    He moved to the rail to look down at her. Purpose, he thought again. He could acquire a strong taste for a woman with purpose.
    Then he sat on the step, pulled out his phone. He called his closest friend—who was also his lawyer—to sweet-talk him into representing a suicidal bartender with a gambling addiction.
    Â 
    From the second-floor balcony, Phoebe watched the green sheepdog prance. He seemed pretty damn proud of himself, matching his steps to the fife and drum played by a trio of leprechauns.
    Joe was alive, and while she’d missed the curtain, she was right where she wanted to be for the second act.
    Not such a crappy way to spend St. Patrick’s Day after all.
    Beside her, Phoebe’s seven-year-old daughter bounced in her bright green sneakers. Carly had campaigned long and hard for those shoes, Phoebe recalled, whittling away at any and all resistance to the price or impracticality.
    She wore them with green cropped pants with tiny dark pink dots, and a green shirt with pink piping—also a long and arduous campaign by the pint-sized fashion diva. But Phoebe had to admit, the kid looked unbelievably sweet.
    Carly’s sunset red hair came down from her grandmother, through her mother. The curls came from her grandmother, too—skipping a generation there, as Phoebe’s was straight as a stick. The brilliant and bright blue eyes were from Essie as well. The middle generation, as Phoebe often thought of herself, settled for green.
    All three had the pale, pale redhead’s complexion, but Carly had inherited the dimples Phoebe had longed for as a child, and the pretty mouth with its dip deep in the top lip.
    There were times Phoebe looked at her mother and her daughter, and through the impossible waves of love wondered how she could be the bridge between two such perfectly matched points.
    Phoebe brushed a hand over Carly’s shoulder, then bent to press a kiss on those wild red curls. In answer to the gesture, Carly shot out a mile-wide grin that showed the gap of two missing front teeth.
    â€œBest seat in the house.” From behind them, one short stride outside the door, Essie beamed.
    â€œDid you see the dog, Gran?”
    â€œI sure did.”
    Phoebe’s brother turned to their mother. “You want a seat, Mama?”
    â€œNo, sweetie.” Essie waved Carter off. “I’m just fine.”
    â€œYou can come up to the rail again, Gran. I’ll hold your hand the whole time. It’s just like the courtyard.”
    â€œThat’s right. That’s right.” But Essie’s smile was strained as she crossed the short distance to the rail.
    â€œYou can see better from here,” Carly began. “Here comes another marching band! Isn’t it great, Gran? Look how high they’re stepping.”
    See how she soothes her Gran, Phoebe thought. How her little hand holds tight to give support. And Carter, look at him, moving to Mama’s other side, running a hand down her back even as he points to the crowd.
    Phoebe knew what her mother saw when she looked at Carter. Having a child of her own, she understood exactly that hard and stunning love. But it would be doubled for her, Phoebe thought. Mama had only to look at Carter, at the rich brown hair, those warm hazel eyes, the shape of his chin, his nose, his mouth, and she would see the husband she’d lost so young. And all the might-have-beens that died with him.
    â€œFresh lemonade!” Ava wheeled a cart to the doorway. “With plenty