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dragging buckets of table scraps to the compost heap might chill his excitement, not to mention the lack of cell service or high-speed Internet, but Christine hoped he’d be so busy learning and exploring that he’d forget all about Brigitte.
    She caught up with him halfway down the terrace, opening doors. When he reached a faded blue one, Christine got a jolt of electric memory. That was Dylan’s room, where she’d lost her virginity not exactly on purpose.
    “Not that one!” she called, then saw that David had opened the door to Marcus Barnard, who was buttoning up a blue shirt.
    “Sorry,” David said, the moved on to the next room.
    “He didn’t realize the room was occupied,” she said, watching Marcus’s fingers on the buttons. His ring finger had a pale indentation. He was divorced or widowed and not long ago. Hmmm.
    “No problem,” he said, tucking in his shirt. “I’ll get the dolly.” Before she could object, he was loping down the terrace.
    “Thanks!” she called as he took the stairs down to the yard. Leaning on the terrace rail, she watched him cross to the clay barn, moving with the easy grace of an athlete, strong, but not showy about it. Easy on the eyes. Maybe she shouldn’t stare, but, heck, window-shopping didn’t cost a dime, did it?





CHAPTER TWO
    M ARCUS ROLLED THE clay-spattered dolly toward Christine’s car, not certain what bothered him more: how much David looked like Nathan or how abruptly he’d been caught by Christine.
    She was pretty, of course, and lively, a coil of energy ready to spring into action. It had to be the contrast to his quiet life. She was like an explosion of confetti, a surprise that made you smile.
    And when she’d burst in on him dressing, he’d all but expected her. He’d felt abruptly alert. Awake.
    Which made him realize he’d been numb for a while, since long before the divorce. The sensation almost hurt, like the tingling ache of a sleep-numbed arm regaining circulation.
    Then there was her son. The last thing Marcus needed was a walking, talking reminder of his stepson. His memories and regrets were difficult enough.
    He got to the car as Christine staggered beneath the huge suitcase she’d dragged from the overhead luggage rack. He lunged to catch it before it hit the gravel. If she’d waited… But, then, Christine Waters didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who waited for much at all.
    She jumped in with both feet, which at the moment were clad in heeled sandals, not exactly stable on uneven ground. She was dressed for the city in a filmy top, white shorts and flashy jewelry. It was as if she hadn’t wanted to admit she was coming to a commune. Her mother was clearly a source of tension, too.
    What the hell was he doing analyzing the woman anyway?
    “That’s David’s bag,” she said, nodding at the one he held, her face flushed from exertion. “Let’s load his stuff first.”
    Marcus put the bag on the cart and David added an electric guitar case. “You play?” Marcus asked.
    David nodded. He had the same long blond hair, scrawny frame, soulful eyes and narrow face as Nathan. Even Lady had been fooled, barreling at him with joy, her owner home at last.
    “His teacher says he’s gifted, but he hardly practices,” Christine said. “He’ll have time when we’re here to—”
    “I’m not gifted,” David blurted, glaring at his mother.
    “I didn’t practice much until I got into a band,” Marcus said to smooth the moment.
    “You play, too?” Christine locked gazes with him. Her eyes were an unusual color—a soft gray.
    “Acoustic these days, but yes, I play.”
    “Maybe you and David could jam.” Her face lit up, but her son’s fell, clearly mortified.
    “God, Mom.”
    “If you’re interested, of course.” But he was certain the boy would decline. A good thing. Marcus would prefer to keep his distance.
    “David…? Answer the man!”
    Easy, Mom, Marcus wanted to warn her.
    “Maybe, whatever,” David