All he has to do is prove it
Paul Bouvet had discovered on his first trip to Rossiter that the café next door to the Delaney mansion functioned as a sort of town club. Heâd have to find some way to beâif not acceptedâat least tolerated by the locals who ate there regularly. If his mother had come as far as Rossiter before she disappeared, someone might remember seeing her. After all, thirty years ago there couldnât have been too many strangers showing up in Rossiter.
He didnât have a clue how to find out. He didnât dare come straight out and ask. Nobody could know who he was or why he was there. The P.I. his uncle had hired had never been able to trace Michelle Bouvetâs movements beyond the bus station in downtown Memphis. The trail had gone cold at that point and had stayed cold until six months ago.
Nowâall these years laterâPaul finally believed he knew what had happened to his mother. He just had to find the proof.
Dear Reader,
What kind of man abandons his young wife, then kills her when she finds him six years later? What kind of son would that man father?
Those questions have tortured Paul Bouvet his entire life. Now at last he has the means to answer them.
Paul buys the derelict Delaney mansion in the tiny town of Rossiter, Tennessee, and begins to restore it purely to give himself a cover. He wants revenge against his fatherâs family, the wealthy, arrogant Delaney clan.
But he begins to lose his taste for revenge after he meets Ann Corrigan, the art restorer whoâs bringing his mansion back to life. And teaching Paul what itâs like to have love in his life.
But can he abandon the vow he made to his late motherâs family? If not, can he endure losing Ann?
To find the answers to these questions, read on. I hope you enjoy the journey.
Carolyn McSparren
To Betty Salmon, who gave me permission
to use the name of the Wolf River Caféâ it really exists, although the people came out of my head.
To Eve Gaddy, a wonderful writer,
who suggested the idea and graciously let me use it.
Early March
âIâM SORRY TREY sold the house to a stranger,â Ann Corrigan said as she hooked her foot under a rung of her bar stool at the counter of the Wolf River Café. âNot that I really blame him. What else could he do?â
âTwo years on the market without a nibble. I guess he could have burned it down and collected the insurance,â Bernice Jones answered. She ran a clean rag over the counter. âYou want breakfast?â
âJust some iced tea, please. I would have bought the place myself if I had the money and could afford to fix it up.â
âWhat would you do with a big place like that?â Bernice shook her head, picked up a mason jar, filled it with ice and tea, then set it down in front of Ann. âItâs about ready to fall down. Trey jumped at that foolâs offer, donât you think he didnât.â
Ann peered across the counter. âBernice, donât you have any lemon?â
âIf youâll hold your horses, Iâll cut you some. The teaâs barely had time to steep.â Bernice reached for a wicked-looking paring knife, picked up a lemon and began slicing it with speed and accuracy. âBet you couldnât get iced tea this time of the morning up in Buffalo, could you?â
âHalf the time I couldnât get iced tea in the middle of the day up there. They have this weird idea that iced tea is for hot weather and never for breakfast. And they never even heard of sweet tea.â
âOught to be glad you finished that job and got yourself back down south. You must be sick of blizzards.â
âI spent so much time restoring the proscenium arch in that old theater I didnât much care about the weather outside. I do not want to see any more gold leaf for a while.â
âNot much of that next door at the old Delaney house.â Bernice set a dish of sliced lemons on the counter. âBe better if it collapsed on its own, except it would probably fall on the café and kill us all.â
Ann speared two pieces of lemon, squeezed them into her tea, then added a couple of packets of artificial sweetener. âWhy are you so down on the place?â
âEverybody who ever lived in that mansion was miserable. Some houses are just unhappy from the get-go. You mark my words. That Frenchman has bought himself a heap of trouble.â Bernice looked past Annâs shoulder. âHold your horses, boys. Iâll be there with the coffee in a second.â She picked up the big pot and wended her way through the tables occupied nearly every morning by the same group of local farmers indulging in a second breakfast.
When Bernice set the coffeepot back on the warmer, Ann said, âI was happy there. Sometimes after my piano lesson Aunt Addy and I would have lemonade and homemade macaroons in the conservatory. That house is probably the reason I got into the restoration business. Every time I see an old building fallen on hard times, I just ache to make it glow again.â