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On his birth certificate, there was a suspicious blank. His mother had refused to discuss the man who'd fathered him anytime Leif brought up the subject. He'd received the last name Lively from a small Colorado town his mother had once visited. For thirty-four years, Leif had made do without a father.
And for those same thirty-four years, Leif had pretended he didn't need to know the man who had impregnated his mother. It had been easier to pretend there wasn't a void in his life. But underneath the happy-go-lucky hippie veneer was a small boy who longed to know who his father was.
Calliope had died holding fast to his name.
So Leif had no clue who his biological father was. And no one in the small community of Magnolia Bend knew Leif was the son of a murderess.
Leif emerged into a clearing and saw an older woman pulling weeds in front of the first in a string of cabins.
Quickly, so as not to be seen, he ducked behind the huge magnolia tree blooming on the edge of the woods. He had no idea who the woman was, but he didn't feel like explaining why he trespassed.
Soon he'd have to confide in someone with regard to the search for his roots. Southerners were definitely hospitable but they closed ranks fast if they knew you weren't one of them. And it had been obvious from his first day in Magnolia Bend that he wasn't one of them. Maybe Abigail would be the perfect person to reveal his true purpose for being here. Her family had lived in this area forever, and she could provide him with some history and help locate someone who might remember his mother.
Abigail.
She was the antithesis of overblown and easy. Her willowy frame harkened back to Jane Austen and buttoned-up dresses. That stubborn chin, dark hair, and intellect were reasons to move away from her rather than inch closer. Yet he'd shown up at her house last night, liquor in hand.
Oh, he'd argued with himself about going, but reason had lost.
Why?
She intrigued him. Her edges needed rounding out. Like she needed someone to show her how to freakin' relax, to let the woman beneath the field sergeant climb out and play.
He could do that- ply her with pretty words, treat her to a bit of romance and laughter. But why he felt like doing so was as clear as morning on the San Francisco Bay.
Maybe it was because he knew how she felt when her ex-husband had slammed back into her life. Or maybe there was no good reason. Maybe he was an eternal hopeless dumb ass looking for someone to belong to. Maybe it was a really stupid idea.
Doubling back toward his house, he tried to talk himself out of any further romantic interactions with Abigail Beauchamp Orgeron. But by the time he stepped onto his porch, he'd decided to not worry so much about the reasons he shouldn't and embrace the reasons he should.
If there was one thing Leif always did, it was listen to what the universe told him.
And the wind whispered her name.
"JOHN OFFICIALLY PROPOSED to Shelby,"Francesca "Fancy" Beauchamp said, handing Abigail the scissors so she could trim the ribbon on the pillow she held.
Abigail looked at her mother, eyeing her handiwork critically. Thankfully, the pillows looked custom-made, something she could no longer afford. "I thought he'd already asked her? When did this happen?"
"Last night. Your brother drove her out to Boots Grocery, got down on a knee in the middle of the bar and told her he was glad he'd gotten drunk and knocked her up in the bathroom. And then he asked her to become his wife. Can you believe it? Our John?"
"No, the way he grieved Rebecca, I didn't think it possible."
Fancy shrugged. "Me neither, but I'm happy for him. Your father's a bit appalled at the proposal locale."
A bar wasn't exactly the kind of place Reverend Dan Beauchamp frequented but it was where her brother had met Shelby.. .and where they'd made a mistake that set fate on its ear. "Well, it's hard growing up a preacher's kid. We constantly disappoint."
Fancy smacked her hand, making her drop the scissors. "Don't say that. Your father and I worked hard to raise you as regular kids, to be able to make mistakes without being judged by a ridiculous standard."
Abigail picked up the scissors. "I'm not criticizing you and Dad. It's just how it is. We accept it, but sometimes it's hard. Take John. Who could have imagined someone so steady would topple head over-boots for someone like Shelby? Never in a million years would I have put those two together." She snipped the ragged threads that had not been sewn down. The ribbon made a perfect square in the middle of the flowered fabric. A pretty monogram sat in the center.
Fancy rose from the breakfast table and carried her empty mug to the sink. The large farm house sink anchored a generous slab of marble in the bright kitchen. Her mother's kitchen reflected her personality-cheerful, with clean lines and purpose. Yes, it was an optimistic kitchen if there were such a thing.
"I like Shelby, and sometimes a person needs to be balanced out by someone who is their opposite," Fancy said.
"I like Shelby, too. But they don't look like they'd fit."
Fancy returned to tug at a wayward thread, rolling it into a ball. "Can't go on what we see. Scripture tells us man sees what is on the outside, but God sees a man's heart. Perhaps John-"
"Oh, you can bet he was attracted to that outside." Abigail bounced big pretend breasts against her chest.
