Damn it. That’s exactly why this issue had been so impossible to talk about. Poppy had spent a whole darn childhood trying to make her sisters feel safe and happy, so they wouldn’t have to cry. And now she could hear unfallen tears in Mari’s voice. And her own eyes were welling up and stinging.

  “I wanted you to know that you could have had a great Christmas without me. That you don’t need my approval or support or protection. You don’t need me. Not anymore. Not like when we were kids.”

  For a few moments, there was total silence from both sisters. Poppy gulped, then tried again. “Let me say it a different way. I was only the substitute mom because you two were too little to take on the job. But I don’t want that mom role in our lives anymore. I don’t want to be the boss, or the organizer, or the rulemaker. I just want to be your sister.”

  “Well,” Marigold said. “I can kind of get that.”

  “I never got a chance to just be a sister.”

  “You’re whining now.” Cam’s teacher voice.

  “It’s not our fault you always took on those jobs, Poppy.” Marigold.

  “None of it’s your fault. None of it’s my fault. It’s just the way the cookie rolled out after Mom died. We just never stopped to think about changing the rules.”

  “Maybe because you were the only one who wasn’t happy?” Cam, again, not willing to let go. Not willing to cry. Just upset.

  “Here’s part of the problem. My problem. I do want to be a mom. But to my own kids. If I ever get married. If I ever have any.”

  “Of course you’re going to get married.”

  Cam still had more to say. “I never thought I acted overdependent on you. Needy. Glued at the hip. I just always wanted you to be the first person I told when something important happened. If you don’t want that—”

  “Quit sounding hurt, Cam. You were never anything like a needy Nelly. But we all trust one another so tight. Neither of you need a mini-mom anymore. You don’t need my advice or approval, not like you did. Don’t misunderstand me. I wanted to be the best almost-mom you could have. But I need something different now—and I think you two do, too.”

  “I’m listening, Poppy.” Marigold sounded thoughtful.

  “I don’t want to be less close. I want to be close in a different way. I just want to be another sister. I want us all on the same level. And I need your help to do that. I pushed you out of the nest when you were old enough. Now I want you to push me out.”

  “Poppy, you’re older than we are. And you’ve achieved so much on your own—”

  “Work stuff, yes. Academics, yes. But I haven’t achieved anything personal, Cam. I really never risked leaving the nest I had with you two. But now, I need to create my own life. It’s so past time. I need to take risks. To own my own life. Don’t you both feel the same way?”

  “Sheesh, Poppy. You don’t have to go on and on. I got it. But I need to think about it all, before I have anything else to say.” Marigold was obviously ready to ring off.

  Cam, not quite so fast. “I’m upset.”

  “I know. I can hear it in your voice. It’s killing me.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you. For at least a day.”

  Well, in spite of herself, that brought on a smile. At least a small one. “A day? A day is all you expect to be upset?”

  “I just don’t have time to hold grudges. And someone’s at the door. Talk to you in a day or two.”

  Poppy heard the click, knew Cam had hung up as well. She let out a huge sigh, as if not realizing how long she’d been holding her breath.

  Maybe this cake wasn’t fully baked yet, but finally, all the ingredients were in and the oven on. Change just couldn’t happen overnight. The big things, the serious things, all took time to really change. But for the first time since she was eleven, Poppy felt lighter, easier. More certain that she could identify what she needed and wanted in her life.

  And now more than ever, she couldn’t wait to see Sam again.

  * * *

  ON WEDNESDAY, SAM parked on the street by Poppy’s house around three. He’d had it. Five days was enough of all this flimflamming around with texts and missed calls and voice mails. Obviously midafternoon wasn’t a good time—unlikely she would be home from the lab this early, but he wanted to see her place. Do a few things. And since both her sisters had offered him a spare key to Poppy’s house, he’d graciously agreed.

  He liked the neighborhood—all grown-in trees, lots of stone and brick. And her house was small, but one of a kind. The architecture included the gables, a massive window in the arched roof, pretty brickwork, casement windows.

  When he turned the key, his eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light, but it didn’t take a brain surgeon to find light switches. Sam plopped a grocery sack in the kitchen, then rambled around the first floor for a few minutes, just doing a basic discovery tour.

  The house was likely built in the l940s, no youngster, but it had seriously good bones. Poppy hadn’t quite moved in yet—but he’d half expected that. He didn’t know how many years she’d owned the place, but she’d been insanely busy from the time she was a kid.

  There was no reason to put up paintings and personal stuff if you were only crashing here. He suspected Poppy wouldn’t say it quite that way, but she’d the same as told him. She had no time for herself. Never had.

  Now, hopefully, she would.

  He poked, opened doors, kitchen cupboards, headed upstairs, and found Poppy’s one sanctuary—a mighty inviting office. The ceiling was slanted too low for him to stand up except in one spot, but it was clearly her place, not meant for anyone else. Here were the pictures, the ancient curl-up-in chair, the purple throw to ward off drafts.

  Sam smiled as he clomped back downstairs, set his overnight bag in Poppy’s bedroom—hey, there was only one bedroom. And he wasn’t leaving until he’d finally caught up with her.

  Back in the kitchen, he turned on her oven, opened cupboards until he found the right-size pan, opened the fridge for other stuff. Not much. He’d brought what he needed to make Bengal tigers—a chicken recipe his mom had given him years back, because it was male-proof. That was meant as an insult, he understood at the time. But she was right. You could forget it for an hour or two and it’d still come out tasting good. He didn’t know how or why. He just knew it took fifteen minutes to throw together, add potatoes to bake, and still have time to chill some white wine and dark beer.

  SAM NEVER HEARD a car drive up, but he picked up some kind of sound—a thump on her front porch? Either from bootsteps or possibly she’d dropped something. Either way he sprang to his feet and surged to meet her, throwing open the door.

  Only it wasn’t Poppy.

  It was a guy. Sam sized him up in a millisecond. The guy was good-looking, if you liked a sharp Gallic nose and a boxy frame with no neck. Sam could smell his too-fresh aftershave. He was wearing a wool coat instead of a parka. Shoes instead of boots. His hair had that fresh-barbered cut, his face shaved within an inch of his life.

  Sam could smell a predator at fifty paces. He really didn’t need to analyze the rest of the details.

  “Hey,” he said cordially. Since he happened to be carrying a kitchen towel, he feigned wiping his hands dry, as if he were familiar with her house, her towels, and everything else inside the place. “I’m Sam Cooper. And you’re . . .”

  “Gary. Gary—”

  Sam missed the last name, mostly because he wasn’t listening, didn’t really care. He snapped his fingers. “I know about you. Feel as if I almost know you. You went to school with Poppy—”

  Gary’s mouth dropped. “You knew about that?”

  Of course Sam didn’t. But the guy looked the same general age as Poppy. And he was here. And wearing a winsome smile when he put up a hand to knock on the door—although the winsome had worn off fast when he saw Sam.

  “Sure,” Sam said. “She loves telling stories about growing up here, her school days—I’m sorry, she’s not home from work yet. Was she expecting you?”

  “No,” the guy admitted.

  Thankfully that was the right answer. Sam wasn’t expecting a difficult situation, but it was so much easier to be kind. Gracious. The Bigger Man. “Well . . . would you like to leave a message? I’d ask you in—but we planned quite a special evening once she gets home.”

  “No, no. I didn’t want to interrupt. You don’t even have to tell her I was here. I was just going to say hi.”

  Yeah. And cows danced. “Well, I’m glad to meet you. I’ll tell Poppy you came by.” Sam waved, en route to slowly, graciously closing the door.

  He’d bet the moon and back that Poppy had quite a few of those hard-to-get-rid-of guys from her school years. Some men just had to be squished down before they got the message. It was hard to deal with a predator when you were five foot four. Much easier when you were taller than he was and had the muscle to go with it.

  Getting rid of the guy almost started Sam whistling. But not quite. Nothing was going to shake off his nerves until he could see Poppy again.

  They were so good together, but being separated was a whole different ball of wax. Poppy was just defining her own brand of strength, learning to give herself permission to . . . well, to be the woman she wanted to be, on her own terms. Sam had been afraid, because of falling in love with her so fast and hard, that he’d screw up. He’d screwed up once—badly. Now he knew easily that was never the woman for him, but that was the difference.

  Poppy was. The one and only woman. For him.

  But with their crazy lives—and crazy families—it was going to be challenging to make it all work. If not impossible. Unless she felt the same.

  * * *

  POPPY NOTED AN unusual number of vehicles were parked on her street, from trucks to cars. Since it was Wednesday night, she figured someone was likely having a party or maybe a family gathering. It wasn’t a problem, easy enough to wiggle around them and pull into her own drive.

  Her house had lights on—which was weird, since she always turned off the lights when she left in the morning. But this workweek had been a frazzler. Finally, the grant project was done, perfect, sent out, legally protected, the whole shebang. The staff were as exhilarated as she was—and probably just as worn out.

  She hoped she wasn’t out of peanut butter, because she was too darned whipped to cook dinner.

  Poppy opened the door before she realized that she was still holding the key in her hand and hadn’t needed it. So she’d left the house unlocked all day? Open all day? Maybe it finally happened. She’d lost her mind.

  She dumped her work bag, her purse, her gloves on the table by the door, had one sleeve out of her coat when she saw him. Sam.

  Now she was really worried she’d lost her mind. Obviously she was dreaming him. Scarier yet, the dream came with wildly realistic details. His unbrushed hair. His black-and-white flannel shirt. His eyes homed in on her face like lasers locking on a target, a smile on his lips that wasn’t quite steady. He was holding a spatula.

  Imagine having a dream that included Sam holding a spatula. It was more than she could handle. She galloped toward him, dropping her jacket midstep, and pretty much jumped in his arms. “It is you. I thought I was dreaming you. If I am dreaming you, for Pete’s sake, don’t wake me up. I’ve been so worried.”

  “About my dad? He’s fine.”

  “Not about your dad. You texted me all the stuff about your dad. About us. How we were ever going to do this. How we could possibly make it happen. Whether I was dreaming to think we could find some way to pull it all together. Whether I was losing you.”

  “You couldn’t lose me.” Obviously she had to kiss him. Seriously kiss him. She watched his eyes close, then closed her own. There it was. The haunting taste of him. The sinking in. The texture of his mouth, his tongue. The way his tough, strong body molded perfectly against hers.

  And yeah, the way fire sprung between them, those kisses expressing urgent words, hot needs, the wildness they found together. But her face suddenly reared back, looked at him. “I smell something burning.”

  “It’s not burning but it’s really close. Figured you’d be hungry.”

  “I am. Starved. Missed lunch. But I’m not that hungry for food, Sam. It’ll wait.”

  “But I need to feed you. And me. Before it burns. And because we have stuff we need to talk about before we get to ‘us’ time.”

  “Okay. I’ll eat fast.” Poppy smiled at him, a private smile, and then was about to stampede into the kitchen before she noticed the living room. “Whoa. What’s going on here? Some kind of game?”

  In the center of the carpet, Sam had apparently been playing with money. He’d used rope to make four lines within a circle. One line held silver dollars; the next held two-dollar bills, then the quarters, and the last was a pile of bright copper pennies.

  “Let’s get plates, and I’ll tell you. How about if you sit and I just serve us?” Sam brought in the beer and wineglasses, so she could pour. Next, silverware, since he forgot it. Then finally he came back with plates covered with Bengal tigers, hot buttered potatoes, beans that he claimed had been cooked with dried cranberries and a little maple syrup.

  “Wow. Are you kidding? I’m never cooking, Sam, if you can come up with chef-style dishes like this. That really does look a little like a tiger.” She tasted. “Mmm. You really slayed it. Totally delicious.” But her gaze was focused on the rope lines dividing the strange variety of currency. And on the small green velvet box that had suddenly appeared right next to her wineglass.

  Her gaze kept bouncing around. From the circle. To the box. Back to the circle. Back to the box. To the circle. Then back to the box.

  Then to his face. Just his face.

  “This looks pretty confusing, Sam,” she said gently.

  “I know.” He scratched his chin. “I was afraid if I just started talking, I’d bumble it. And I wanted to cover some extremely serious things. Before kissing you. If I didn’t create some kind of convoluted nonsense to get us through this, I’d kiss you before I got the big stuff said. Poppy.”

  “I’m here.”

  “I have some huge stuff to say.”

  “It’s okay. We’ll get past the convoluted. Survive any bumbling. It’s going to work out. I’m about a hundred percent positive.”

  He pointed a finger at her. “Don’t let me start kissing you until I get this done.”

  “We’ll see. I’m not promising.” Night had come on strong. The windows reflected nothing but black sky with a wink of starlight. Only shadowed lamplight illuminated where they were. Sam’s face was always strong, his eyes always gentle. But Poppy rarely saw stark vulnerability in Sam. Now she saw it, soft as a heartbeat, in the way he looked at her.

  He was the real thing, she mused. Her pulse simmered like a promise waiting to bubble up and happen. Like a moment she never wanted to forget.

  But he was obviously trying to stay seriously serious a few minutes longer. “I drew some lines. I know that sounds silly. But we’ve both had trouble drawing lines in our lives. So this was just a way of making a plan. A way of looking at how we could manage our lives. But also—know we could change the plan at any time.” He added firmly, “This has nothing to do with loving you.”

  She was 110 percent certain it did. But she said, “Heavens. Don’t worry. That never crossed my mind.”

  “Okay. So here’s the idea. The line with all the silver dollars—that’s about you and me. The two of us are in that lane. No one else. We take care of each other, put the two of us first. We protect each other, from all the bad people. But also from all the good, wonderful people who love us, but sometimes demand too much of our time. Okay so far?”

  “Totally okay,” Poppy agreed. And since he set down his plate and sat on the carpet, so did she. Not too close. Just hip-bumping, knee-grazing close. Not kissing close, but just in case that possibility came up, neither was going to need a five-mile hike to get there.

  “We can move any of the lines, Red. This isn’t about my making the rules. It’s about both of us considering how to establish our priorities.”

  “Got it.”

  “So the line with the two-dollar bills—two-dollar bills are rare. Because we both know that sometimes, we have to change the rules and do what we have to do. You can’t plan for everything. There’ll always be crises that come up, because that’s how life is—but that doesn’t have to mean it’s a crisis for us. It just means we have to think up unusual solutions, color outside the lines, to find solutions for those. A crisis doesn’t have to be bad. Doesn’t have to be scary. Actually, I think it’s part of the fun of being together. Two heads are always better than one. Especially your brain and my brain. We’re already both problem solvers.”

  “I like how you think, Sam.”

  He frowned at her. “Not yet.”

  She hadn’t tried to kiss him. But possibly he guessed she was thinking about it. “Go on,” she urged him.

  “So the quarters—they’re basic currency. Family and loved ones go specifically in that line. They matter to us. They’re basic and important to our lives. And we want them to have a slot of our time and attention. But they can’t own every second of us.”

  “Got it.”

  “Okay. Now the last line is copper pennies. I’m using them to represent work. You and I have completely different jobs. Always will. In the summer I work like a maniac. Can’t help it. It seems like when you’re in the middle of a project, you’re working maniacal hours as well. That’s okay, for us to have different priorities there. To respect what each of us needs to do. But I made a separate line for work with pennies—because we both love our work, need our work. It matters. But we can’t let it steal all our time, all our energy.”

  “Got it.”

  “Poppy.” His voice turned dead serious. “We’re alike. I didn’t first see it, but I do now. When there’s a trauma in either of our families, we show up. That’s who we are. Besides which, I hope we have half a dozen kids and all their families come over to feast with all their families. I believe in families.”