Sweet Tibby Mack. Roz Fox Denny

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       CHAPTER ONE

      TIBBY MACK smiled to herself as she loaded the last of the homemade baskets, each of them filled with bright spring blooms, into the back of her aged station wagon. She could almost feel her grandmother’s presence. Hanging May baskets on the front doorknobs of all the Yaqui Springs residents was a yearly event Lara Mack had lovingly observed. Though Gram had been gone nearly a year, Tibby knew that if the kindly old lady were ever to smile down from heaven, it would be on May Day.

      Running late as usual, Tibby slammed the tailgate and hurried into the store to shed her gardening gloves. If no one caught her distributing baskets and stopped to chat, she might get back to open the store and coffee bar on time. Although she’d promised to feed Ariel Pulaski’s Afghan hounds for a few days, and they had to be worked in before she drove Mabel Sparks to the airport…

      “Uh-oh. Looks like I didn’t move fast enough.” Clutching the Closed sign, Tibby tossed her thick braid over one shoulder as she watched a car leave the main highway and speed toward the general store. A racy sports car. She frowned. No one she knew drove anything remotely that upscale. Had it been a local, she would’ve given him a key, and trusted him to leave a list of what he took. As it was a stranger, she had no choice but to leave fast or chance letting the fragile blossoms wilt.

      Flipping the sign to read Closed, she sprinted toward her vehicle.

      The approaching stranger squealed his midnight blue Jaguar to a halt in front of Tibby and hopped out almost before the full-throated growl of the engine quit.

      She froze, her breath trapped in her throat. The world tilted crazily. Not a stranger. Cole O’Donnell. Someone she’d steeled herself to see at Yale’s funeral—and then he hadn’t shown up. After she’d spent days foolishly worrying that she wouldn’t recognize him. Tibby would have known his thick acorn brown hair and beachboy tan at ten times the distance. But why was he here now? She automatically smoothed her wrinkled skirt and grappled for composure.

      “Well, hel-lo,” he drawled, flashing a smile that warmed his gray eyes. “It’s a thirsty drive from the coast I’m dying for a cup of coffee.” He glanced expectantly from the still-swinging Closed sign to the woman’s lush goldenrod hair. “Things have changed in Yaqui Springs. I’d heard Mrs. Mack passed away. She ran the store as far back as I can remember. Are you the new owner?” Cole didn’t think the attractive blonde was the new owner’s wife. He noticed that her left hand was bare of rings.

      Hurt that he didn’t recognize her, Tibby slipped on a pair of sunglasses. Yet it shouldn’t surprise her that he didn’t. Their last’meeting—the spring she’d finally found the courage to invite him to the Date Festival in Indio—he’d been an older man of almost twenty to her sixteen. Oh, he’d looked at her, but he hadn’t really seen her when he carelessly turned her down. It embarrassed her now to think how often she’d haunted his grandfather’s place, waiting for snippets of news about Cole. If Yale ever guessed what prompted her many visits, he’d never let on. That grand old gentleman had taught her bookkeeping skills, which allowed her to run the store during her grandmother’s long illness and after. He’d also taken her golfing to keep her spirits up.

      Now Yale, too, was gone. A fact that didn’t seem to bother the man standing before her, flaunting his sexy, easy smile.

      “You’re a little late for your grandfather’s funeral,” Tibby said coolly. “We buried him six weeks ago.”

      The accusation cut through Cole like a hot knife. Anna, bless his mother’s callous soul, hadn’t seen fit to let him know. Until he’d returned from Italy to a backlog of mail, he’d remained unaware he’d lost the person he loved most in the world. At first he’d been too shaken to even deal with the inheritance. Then one day about a month ago he’d received a note from the Yaqui Springs recreational committee, along with a petition asking that he build a golf course on his grandfather’s land. His land now.

      Owning his own golf course was Cole’s “someday” dream. Gramps had taught him to play the game and love it. What better tribute to the old man’s memory?

      Who was this woman? Cole shaded his eyes against the sun. And if the set of her shoulders and the twist of her lips were any indication, she didn’t like him.

      “Hey, wait,” he called as she climbed into a woodsided station wagon and prepared to leave. “Have we met?”

      “Blue moons ago, whiz kid. I’m Tibby Mack.” Slamming her door, she pushed the key into the ignition and gave it a twist. Tibby thanked her lucky stars that for once the wagon started without a sputter. “I hate to run, but I’m delivering May baskets to the residents. Then I have Pulaski’s dogs to feed and Mabel Sparks to take to the airport. Afraid you’ll have to get your caffeine fix elsewhere.”

      Tibby Mack. Lara Mack’s granddaughter? Cole’s jaw nearly hit the asphalt. That skinny kid who wore pigtails and had braces on her teeth? Maybe the moss green eyes were familiar, but now they appeared in a whole different package. He hadn’t seen her for—what?—at least ten years. The summer he’d been a college sophomore. Hot stuff. Nineteen going on thirty. His friends had spent their spring break in Palm Springs. Gramps had wanted him to come to Yaqui Springs—and after all, Yale had paid for his education. If memory served Cole, his vacation hadn’t turned out half-bad. He’d met an “older woman” of twenty-five. A tennis instructor working the resort at Bogey Wells. She’d greatly enhanced his education—and not just in tennis.

      Cole stared after the disappearing car. “Well, whaddaya know.” Though he hadn’t been back since, he’d spent most previous summers in Yaqui Springs. He remembered the year Tibby Mack had come to live with her grandmother. The kid had looked so lost and forlorn. Because Cole understood loneliness, he’d taken her fishing and given her rides on his moped—until she’d gotten one of her own.

      Cole checked his watch. The store sign said she opened at eight. Was business so good she could take off on a whim? Not by the look of the big empty parking lot. It was all pretty much as Cole remembered, except for a new building Gramps must’ve put up. Even that needed a coat of paint. If Tibby’s eye was on progress, it didn’t show. Maybe she’d become the type to flit around living off inherited money because it was her due—like his mother, he thought bitterly. Old news, Cole reminded himself. No longer affecting him. Nor did anything about Tibby affect him.

      Cole jerked his thoughts back to the mission that had brought him here—Joe Toliver’s letter. It’d come at the right time. Tired of traveling, he’d been giving serious thought to settling down and starting a family of his own. He even had a lady in mind. Cicely Brock, an actress. They got along well. Plus, when the two of them walked into a room, men stepped all over their tongues. A guy could do a lot worse.

      Cole wasn’t going to let one rude woman deter his plans. He’d survey his grandfather’s property, then visit the committee who’d asked him here. Those old boys just might have themselves a first-class golf course.

      BY THE TIME Tibby had finished delivering her fiftieth May basket, she’d nearly ground the enamel off her molars. If one more person brought up Cole O’Donnell’s name, she thought she’d scream. First of all, she didn’t see how anyone could forgive him for skipping his grandfather’s funeral, let alone roll out a red carpet for the man.