“It’s the accent, mate,” Tom said.

“Mine does not seem to heff same effect, for some reason. Eh heh heh heh heh!”

Tom winced, then smiled. Droog was a good guy. Strange, but nice enough. In the month since Tom had been teaching here, they’d had dinner once, gone out for beer and pool twice, and if the experience had been odd, it seemed that Droog had a good heart.

His boss sighed and sat down, tapping his long fingers on the desk. “Tom, I am afraid I heff bad news. Vee von’t be able to renew your vork visa.”

Tom inhaled sharply. The only reason he’d taken this job was for the work visa. “That was a condition of my employment.”

“I em aware. But dee budget...it is too overtaxed for dee court fees.”

“I thought you said it’d be no problem.”

“I vas wrong. They heff reconsidered.”

Tom felt his jaw locking. “I see.”

“Vee value your teaching abilities and experience, Tom. Perhaps you vill find another way. Vee can give you till end of semester.” He paused. “I em sorry. Very much so.”

Tom nodded. “Thanks, mate.” It wasn’t Droog’s fault. But shit.

Dr. Dragul left, and Tom sat at his desk another few minutes. Finding another job in February was unlikely. Wickham College had been the only place in western New York looking for an engineering professor, and Tom had been lucky to get the job as fast as he did. It wasn’t a prestigious place, not by a long shot, but that wasn’t really the point. This time around, it was all about location.

He couldn’t keep his job without a work visa, though it wasn’t like Immigration would be breathing down his neck; an employed professor was less of a concern than most of their cases. Still, the college wasn’t going to keep him on illegally.

If he was going to stay, he needed a green card.

Fast.

But first to the rather shabby house he’d just rented, and then to the much better bar down the street. A drink was definitely required.

* * *

A FEW NIGHTS later, Tom sat in the kitchen of his great-aunt Candace’s kitchen, drinking tea. Only Brits could make decent tea, and though Candace had lived in the States for at least six decades, she hadn’t lost the touch.

“That Melissa,” Aunt Candace said darkly. “She messed everything up, didn’t she?”

“Well. Let’s not speak ill of the dead.”

“But I’ll miss you! And what about Charlie? How old is he now? Twelve?”

“Fourteen.” His unofficial stepson had been ten when Tom met him. Hard to reconcile that talkative, happy little boy with the sullen teenager who barely spoke these days.

A fleeting pain lanced through his chest. Charlie wouldn’t miss him, that seemed certain. One of those situations where Tom wasn’t sure if he was doing any good whatsoever, or if, in fact, his presence made things worse. Melissa, Charlie’s mother, was dead, and her brief engagement to Tom qualified him as nothing in the boy’s life today, even though Charlie had been just a few months away from becoming Tom’s stepson.

Whatever the case, Tom didn’t have much choice about whether or not he was staying in the States. He’d emailed his old department head in England, who wrote right back saying they’d take Tom back in a heartbeat. There weren’t any other colleges in western New York looking for someone with his credentials. And teaching was what he loved (when the students were actually interested in the subject matter, that was).

And so, Tom had decided to drive to Pennsylvania, visit the only relative he had in this country and start the goodbye process. He’d been in the States for four years now, and Aunt Candace had been good to him. Not to mention delirious with joy when he called after his last class to see if she was free for dinner. He even took her to the mall so she could buy a coat, proving a fact Tom firmly believed—he was a bloody saint.

“Here. Have more pie, darling.” She pushed the dish across the table toward him, and Tom helped himself.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Lovely town, Manningsport,” she said. “I lived near there as a child, did you know that?”

“So you told me,” Tom said. His lovely old aunt could bake, that was certain.

“Finish that pie, you might as well. I’m prediabetic or some such nonsense. Then again, I’m also eighty-two years old. Life without dessert is too horrible to contemplate. I’ll just overdose on caramel corn and die with a smile on my face. What was I saying again?”

“You used to live near Manningsport.”

“Yes, that’s right! Just for a few years. My mother was a widow, you see. My father died of pneumonia, and so she packed my brother and me up and came to America. Elsbeth, your grandmother, was already married, so she stayed in Manchester with her husband, of course. Your grandfather. But I remember the crossing, seeing the Statue of Liberty. I was seven years old. Oh, it was thrilling!” She smiled and took a sip of tea.

“So that’s how you became a Yank?” Tom asked.

She nodded. “We lived in Corning, and she met my stepfather, and he adopted Peter and me.”

“I never knew that,” Tom said.

“He was a lovely man. A farmer. Sometimes I’d go with him to deliver milk.” Candace smiled. “Anyway, we moved after my brother died in the war. I was fifteen then. But I still have a friend there. More of a pen pal, do you know what that is?”

Tom smiled. “I do.”

“A pity you have to leave. It’s beautiful there.” Candy’s gaze suddenly sharpened. “Tom, dear...if you really want to stay in the States, you can always marry an American.”

“That’s illegal, Auntie.”

“Oh, pooh.”

He laughed. “I can’t see myself going that far,” he said. “It might be different if—well. It’s not an option.”

It might be if Charlie actually wanted him to stay. Needed him. If Tom were anything but a thorn in Charlie’s side, he might give it a whirl.

He had two thin job prospects with manufacturing firms, both requiring experience he didn’t have. If those didn’t work out (and he was almost positive they wouldn’t), he’d be heading back to jolly old England, which wouldn’t be awful. He’d be near his dad. Probably meet some nice girl someday. Charlie would barely remember him.

The pie suddenly tasted like ash. He pushed back his plate. “I’d better be off,” he said. “Thanks for the visit.”

She stood up and hugged him, her cheek soft against his. “Thank you for coming to see an old lady,” she said. “I’m going to brag about this for days. My grandnephew adores me.”

“You’re right. Ta, Auntie. I’ll call you and let you know what’s happening.”

“If I happen to know someone who might be interested, can I give her your number, dear?”

“Interested in what, Auntie?”

“In marrying you.”

Tom laughed. The old lady’s face was so hopeful, though. “Sure,” he said, giving her another kiss on the cheek. Let the old bird feel useful, and that way, maybe she wouldn’t feel so bad when he went back to England.

There was that pain in his chest again.

It took four hours to drive back to Manningsport. Four hours of wretched, icy rain and windshield wipers that smeared, rather than cleared. The weather thickened as he approached the Finger Lakes. Perhaps he wouldn’t get in too late to grab a bite (and a whiskey) at the pub he was becoming too fond of. Chat up the pretty bartender and try not to think about the future.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

SIX WEEKS AFTER her failed marriage proposal, Honor was starting to panic.

Online dating sites had offered her all of four matches: her brother Jack (pass); Carl, her brother-in-law (he and Pru had registered to see if eCommitment would say that they were compatible, then planned to meet and pretend to be strangers as part of their ongoing quest to keep things fresh; he was also a pass, obviously); Bobby McIntosh, who lived in his grandmother’s basement and had strange, reptilian eyes; and a guy she didn’t know who listed “reincarnation” under his hobbies.

So. Here she was again, staring down the weekend with only Spike, her recently acquired little mutt, for company, and while Spike was indeed excellent company, Honor had sort of hoped for the human variety. Ryan Gosling would’ve been preferred, but he had plans, apparently. Dana was busy, and had been busy a lot lately, which was getting a little frustrating, as winter in the Finger Lakes meant there already wasn’t much to do. Take the best girlfriend out of the equation, and there was even less.

Faith was busy being a newlywed. Pru was busy pretending to be a newlywed. Jack had come over to watch the gruesome medical documentaries they both loved on Honor’s fabulous new TV, and she had the feeling she’d tapped him out on the social front. Abby was a popular kid, and Honor couldn’t bring herself to beg the teenager to hang out and watch movies. Ditto Ned, who already spent enough time with Honor at work.

This left Goggy and Pops, who were always happy to see her but fought constantly, and Dad, who was acting a little weird lately. Jumpy. Secretive.

Would Mrs. Johnson be up for something? Sometimes she’d go to a movie with Honor, though she clucked about the unsanitary nature of theaters, theater staff and humans in general. Hmm. Mrs. Johnson was probably her best bet. They could bring Spike, who loved movies as well as popcorn.

At that moment, her phone rang, startling her so much that she sloshed her coffee. Spike barked from her little doggy bed and began leaping up against Honor’s leg, tearing her panty hose. Though she’d only had Spike for a month, the dog was very protective.

“I’ll get it!” Honor yelled to Ned, the only other employee here at this hour.

“Of course you will,” he yelled back from his office, where the sounds of Angry Birds could be heard.

“Blue Heron Vineyard, Honor Holland speaking,” she said smoothly into the phone, scooping up her doggy.

“Hey, On, it’s Brogan.”

A burst of heat raced up her legs. “Hey! Hi! How are you? How’s it going?” Down, girl, said the eggs. He rejected us, remember?

True. But they’d only emailed a few times since then, and damn if she didn’t miss him.

“I’m really good,” he said. “How are you?”

“I’m good! I’m great! I’m great, too, I mean.” The eggs sighed.

“So listen,” he continued, “I’m in town, and I was hoping you could find some time to see me.”

Honor paused. The words old baseball glove leaped to mind. Then again, they’d always been friends. Still were. “What did you have in mind?”

I’m really sorry about saying no, Honor. These past few weeks have given me time to think and I love you and I want to marry you. Now.

“Drinks at O’Rourke’s?” he asked.

“Sure! You bet.”

“Fantastic,” he said, and his voice was warm. There was a pause. “I have something important to tell you, and I want to do it in person. I think—I hope—it’ll make you really happy.”

The eggs sat up straighter. So did Honor.

“Okay,” she said, pressing her fingers against her hot cheeks. “That sounds great.”

“Seven o’clock?”

Seven! That was in ninety-two minutes. “That works. I’ll see you then.”

She sat there another minute, then sucked in an enormous breath, having forgotten how to breathe normally. Spike licked her chin in concern, and Honor patted her out of reflex. Turned to her computer and typed in Brogan’s words. Studied them. Read them aloud, very softly so her nephew wouldn’t hear.

“Hey,” the same nephew said from her doorway, causing Honor to slap her laptop closed. Ned gave her a strange look. “Chill, Honor.”

“What is it, Neddie dear?”

“You okay? You look all blotchy.”

“Shush, child. What do you want?”

“I’m leaving. I have a date. And a life. You should try it some time.”

“Very funny, Ned. Have fun. Drive carefully.”

She waited till his footsteps had faded away, then opened her laptop and looked at those words again. I have something important to tell you, and I think—I hope—it’ll make you really happy.

Could it be?

Could this be exactly what she wished for?

For one second, the scene flashed in front of her eyes. Herself, sitting at a little table at O’Rourke’s. Brogan on bended knee, the ring shining from a black velvet box. His question, her answer, the applause of the pub patrons, and then, finally, the feeling of his arms around her as he kissed her in public for the first time ever.

Her heart was thudding. Could this really be about to happen to her? The most unsurprising of the Holland girls, the one who was steady as a rock, about to be the subject of such a romantic proposal, finally claimed by Brogan Cain?

It was almost hard to believe. Yeah, about that, said the eggs. The years are precious, sure, but don’t jump the gun.

She ignored them. Adjusted her hairband (pink-and-green plaid). Read the words again.

It sure sounded like what she wanted it to sound like. Oh, yes, indeedy.

Legs trembling slightly, Honor settled Spike in her purse (why have a five-pound dog if you couldn’t take her everywhere?), gave her an absentminded kiss on the head and walked across the lawn to the New House, where Mrs. Johnson was banging pots and pans in the kitchen. Dad was there as well, his face red, stuffing his hands into his faded jeans, a tear in the elbow of his flannel shirt.