The New Man

“I’m Wonder Woman.” Jo flexed what biceps she had. “Of course I can.”

Helen laughed. “Well, Ginny is itching to see the children’s art. I wish her teacher had known how to enter her students’ work.”

“Wouldn’t she love that?” Jo flapped her hands. “Go, go! I’ll be fine. Get something to eat while you’re at it.”

“Bless you.” Helen was starting toward Ginny when the sight of a man entering the tent made her heart give a funny bump.

Alec Fraser, of course.

He looked directly at her, as if half a dozen other people didn’t crowd the tent. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She returned his smile.

He sidestepped so a young woman pushing a stroller could maneuver between him and a pyramid of soap bars. “Looks like business is good.”

“It’s amazing. If it stays this busy all weekend, we’ll sell everything.”

“That’s the way we want it.” He paused. “Can I get you anything? I can bring you lunch, if you tell me what you like.”

She almost asked if he was offering this service, too, to all exhibitors, but refrained. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“Oh, thank you, but I have help. In fact, I was just about to take my daughter to look at the children’s art.”

“Really?” His gaze followed hers to Ginny, who was getting a bar of soap from a bin and handing it to an elderly woman with a cane. “I’m heading that way.”

Helen’s heart gave another lurch. She knew a lie when she heard one. He wanted to spend time with her. She didn’t understand why. As handsome as he was, he must be fending off women with considerably more style—not to mention looks—than she had. But he stood there with his hands in the pockets of his chinos, smiling warmly at her and waiting as if in sublime confidence that she would say “How nice. I’d love your company.”

Blinking, she realized she’d actually said it, not just thought it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jo wink and give her a surreptitious thumbs-up. Helen blushed.

She raised her voice. “Um…Ginny? Jo’s here. Let’s go look at the art inside.”

Ginny pointed the elderly woman toward Jo and joined her mother. “Okay. Can we get lunch after?”

“Of course.” Helen put a hand on her shoulder and steered her out of the tent. “Ginny, meet Mr. Fraser. He’s on the committee putting on this fair. Alec, this is my daughter, Ginny.”

“Nice to meet you.” He smiled at her. “I have a daughter not much older than you. Lily is eleven.”

“Lily is a nice name.”

“Thank you.”

Her brow furrowed. “Are you coming with us?”

“I thought I would, if you don’t mind.”

The furrows deepened.

Helen squeezed her shoulder meaningfully.

“Okay,” Ginny mumbled.

“Thank you.” Looking over the eight-year-old’s head, Alec met Helen’s gaze. His eyes were very blue.

She felt sure she was blushing again, and hoped he’d attribute it to the heat.

They made their way through the crowd toward the school, Ginny lingering at food booths to check out the choices, before they entered the cool building.

A few people wandered about, looking at the children’s artwork and talking in low voices, but there were nowhere near as many as were outside. Helen had a long drink from the fountain beside the rest rooms. Ginny was already twenty feet ahead, crouching in that effortless way children have to examine a brightly colored picture that hung low on the wall.

Alec looked at Helen’s mouth, then back to her eyes. “Feel better?”

“Lots,” she admitted. “Crowds get to me.”

“Claustrophobic?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe a little. Oh, I don’t know. I really enjoy selling, which is weird since I don’t exactly have the right personality. I work at Nordstrom, too.” As if he cared, she chided herself. But he looked as if he did, her shy glance told her. “But when it’s crowded like today, I can hardly take a breath between helping people. Not,” she added, “that I’m complaining.”

“I didn’t think you were.” He stayed at her side as she slowed to look—oh, admit it! she was pretending to look—at some charcoal drawings.

When she glanced at him again, she saw that he was watching Ginny, who had her head tilted like a bird as she examined something with intense concentration.

“Is she artistic?”

“Yes, actually she is.” Helen watched her daughter, too. “I think her drawing is really extraordinary for an eight-year-old. She takes it seriously. I wish…” She stopped.

“You wish?” Alec Fraser’s focus, as intense as Ginny’s, was on her face.

“Oh, just that I could give her more opportunities.”

“I wonder,” he said thoughtfully, “if expensive art classes really are valuable. Your Ginny may learn more sketching on her own, without any pressure, than she would if she had lessons.”

“I wish I could be sure.”

Ginny had moved on to a case of what appeared to be ceramics. Her nose nearly touched the glass.

“What parent is ever sure?” Alec’s tone was dry.

“You said you have an eleven-year-old?”

“And a fourteen-year-old son, who is in a sullen phase. I’m praying Lily doesn’t decide to imitate her brother.” His smile wasn’t quite a smile. “My wife died two years ago. It’s been tough on the kids.”

Helen’s chest felt squeezed and her voice came out sounding thin, not her own. “And on you. I know, because I’m a widow.”

They had both stopped walking and stood facing each other. His eyes narrowed. “When?”

“Three years ago.”

“What happened?”