The sun was at his back, peering intently into the room like an odd man out kibitzing at a bridge table. Lacy had worked her magic in here. It didn’t look like the same room he’d first seen. For that matter, it didn’t look like the same house. In a little more than three short weeks, like a tireless whirlwind, Lacy had methodically worked her way from room to room, renovating, repairing, restoring. A new house, he thought, and a new Lacy. Leaning back in the newly refinished chair, he closed his eyes and let the sun warm him. The Lacy he remembered had been retiring, shy. Innocent. That had been part of the reason he’d felt so damned guilty the morning after he’d woken up to find her in his bed. To find that he had made love with her and that he had been her first. The first man in a woman’s life should be special, especially if that woman was Lacy. That left him out of the running. He was old enough to be her father, albeit, he amended with a fleeting touch of amusement, a young father, but still a father.
