Нора Робертс - The Search

“Peck was perfect. And the fact Hugh had to pee, twice, didn’t hurt. Still, it’s pretty amazing how much ground a three-year-old in footie Spider-Man pj’s can cover.”

“He must’ve been so scared.”

“More wet, cold and tired, really.” Fiona put the kettle on, gestured to the cupboard where she kept several options of herbal tea, with Sylvia in mind. “I’m really sorry I didn’t call you right away to let you know.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Sylvia waved it off as she settled for cinnamon peach. “I was out and about anyway, checking out some pottery—and naturally left my phone in the car. I have to stop doing that.”

She turned, narrowed her eyes as Fiona took a box of Froot Loops out of another cupboard. “You’re not having that processed sugar for breakfast.”

“Fruit, as in Froot Loops.” Smiling hopefully, Fiona shook the box. “There has to be fruit in here.”

“Sit down. I’m fixing you a decent breakfast.”

“Syl, this is fine.”

“It might be, on occasion, if you were ten. Sit,” she repeated, and, at home, opened Fiona’s refrigerator. “Um-hmm, um-hmm. I can work with this. You’ll have a nice egg-white omelet on whole wheat toast.”

“I will?”

“And fill me in on the distraction. An interesting eyeful, isn’t he?”

“Adorable, and with some training he’ll be a wonderful companion.”

Sylvia shot Fiona an arched look as she pulled out a small bowl and a tiny container. “I meant Simon.”

“Maybe I did, too.”

“Ha. He’s tremendously talented, and well mannered, if a little mysterious.”

“Which one are you talking about?”

“Smarty.” Expertly, Sylvia separated the eggs, sealing the yolks in the container before whipping the whites together with a little cheese and herbs. “He has a lovely house on East Sound, is meticulous in his craft, has gorgeous eyes, a strong back, a cute puppy, and he’s single.”

“He sounds perfect for you. Go get him, Syl.”

“I might, if he wasn’t two decades behind me.” Sylvia poured the egg whites into the skillet she had heating and popped bread into the toaster as Fiona fixed the tea. “You go get him.”

“What would I do with him once I got him? Besides that,” she added when Sylvia snorted, “men, like dogs, aren’t just for the fun times. They’re a full-out, long-term commitment.”

“You need the fun times so you can decide if you want the rest. You could try, oh, I don’t know, the wild and crazy concept of a date.”

“I’ve been known to date. I prefer group socialized events, but I occasionally date. And I occasionally indulge in those euphemistic fun times. And before you give another nudge, just let me say: Pot, kettle.”

“I married the love of my life, and had ten wonderful years with him. Sometimes I still feel cheated we didn’t have more time.”

“I know.” Fiona slipped over to rub a hand down Sylvia’s back as they both thought of Fiona’s father. “You made him so happy.”

“We made each other. I can’t help wanting that for you.” She slid the omelet onto the lightly browned toast on a plate. “Eat your breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’am.” They sat across from each other at the tiny table, and Fiona took the first bite. “God, this is good.”

“And hardly took more time or effort than pouring colored sugar into a bowl.”

“You’re entirely too hard on the loops of fruit, but this is too good for me to argue.”

“Well, while you’re eating a decent breakfast, I’ll tell you what I know about Simon Doyle.” Sipping, Sylvia leaned back, crossed her legs. “And don’t bother trying to tell me you’re not curious.”

“Okay, I won’t because I am. A little curious.”

“He’s thirty-three, originally from Spokane, though he lived the last several years in Seattle.”

“Spokane and Seattle. Night and day.”

“Pretty much. His father owns and still operates as a contractor in Spokane—with Simon’s older brother. He double-majored in art and architecture at USC, then worked as a cabinetmaker before he began to design and build furniture. He did pretty well for himself in Seattle, won some awards. Had a very hot affair with Nina Abbott—”

“The singer?”

“That’s right. Pop star, rock star—I’m not sure where she fits.”

“Bad girl of pop,” Fiona said over a mouthful of omelet. “She’s a little crazy.”

“Maybe so, but they steamed it up for a few months after she commissioned him to design several pieces for her house on Bainbridge Island. She’s originally from Washington state and has a house there.”

“Yeah, I know. I read People , watch E! TV now and then. I just... Oh, wait. He’s the one? I remember reading some dish about her and a carpenter. The press mostly referred to him as a carpenter. She’s sexy and talented, but there’s that little-bit-crazy factor.”

“Some people like to shock, I think. Anyway, it fizzled. Still, I expect it didn’t hurt him, business-wise. Then about three months ago, he moved here, and Island Arts is very proud, and damn lucky, to be his exclusive outlet in the San Juans.”

Sylvia lifted her teacup in toast, then sipped.

“Did you get all that from his bio for Island Arts’ Web page and brochures?”

“Actually the bio he gave me was a little thin, so I Googled him.”

“Sylvia.”

Unashamed, Sylvia tossed her lush curls. “Listen, when I take on an artist I have to know who they are. For one thing, I often have to travel to them to check out their work. I wouldn’t want to wander into the den of an ax murderer, would I?”

“I bet you can’t Google most ax murderers. Except those already in prison or in the ground.”

“You never know. Anyway, over and above his work, I like him. What did you think?”

“Since he was a little pissed that Jaws ate the headrest in his truck—”

“Oops.”

“Yeah, and was obviously frustrated with his new puppy-owner status, it might be difficult to judge. On surface observation, and setting aside his physical attributes—”

“And he has them,” Sylvia said with a wicked wiggle of eyebrows.

“No question. I’d say he’s not used to having responsibility for anyone other than himself, and more used to solo ventures. A lone wolf sort—which you’ve added to with this morning’s data: a private place on the sound of a very small island, his move away from family, his choice of career.”

“Sometimes a lone wolf just hasn’t found a mate—or his pack.”

“You’re forever a romantic.”

“Guilty,” Sylvia agreed. “And proud of it.”

“Well, on his side, the puppy’s crazy about him. Shows no fear. Right now, the dog is the alpha, which tells me the man has a soft center. It may be small—can’t know yet—but it’s there. That’s also illustrated by the fact that while he’s very frustrated and annoyed, he doesn’t seem inclined to get rid of the dog. And when given logical options, he accepts. He signed Jaws up for kindergarten, and while I wouldn’t say Simon appears to be happy or enthusiastic about it, he did seem determined. So while not especially used to taking responsibility for another, he will take it when he sees no way out.”

“I swear, you should have gone into psychology. Or profiling.”

“Everything I know, I learned from dogs.” Fiona rose to take her plate to the dishwasher, then turned to step behind Sylvia’s chair and wrap her arms around her stepmother’s neck. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“Anytime.”

“Have another cup of tea. I’m going to set up for class.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Not in those boots. We’re a little soggy from yesterday’s rain. Change your very sexy ones for my Uggs before you come out. They’re in the mudroom.”