Читать книгу: «For Her Son's Love»

Miranda took the first deep breath her lungs would allow during the last hour.

The exact amount of time Andrew Noble had been in the restaurant.

An ember of disgust flared inside her. People struggled to make ends meet while men like Andrew Noble spent money they hadn’t even worked for. A poster boy for the idle rich.

An incredibly good-looking poster boy…

Miranda tried to shake the thought away before it took hold and formed an image of perfectly chiseled features, tousled black hair and eyes a warm palette of soft greens and browns.

Too late.

A Tiny Blessings Tale: Loving families and needy children continue to come together to fulfill God’s greatest plans!

FOR HER SON’S LOVE

Kathryn Springer (LI #404)

MISSIONARY DADDY

Linda Goodnight (LI #408)

A MOMMY IN MIND

Arlene James (LI #412)

LITTLE MISS MATCHMAKER

Dana Corbit (LI #416)

GIVING THANKS FOR BABY

Terri Reed (LI #420)

A HOLIDAY TO REMEMBER

Jillian Hart (LI #424)

KATHRYN SPRINGER

is a lifelong resident of Wisconsin. Growing up in a newspaper family, she spent long hours as a child plunking out stories on her mother’s typewriter. She wrote her first “book” at the age of ten and hasn’t stopped writing since then! Kathryn began writing inspirational romance because it allows her to combine her faith in God with her love of a happy ending.

For Her Son’s Love

Kathryn Springer

“See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.”

—Isaiah 49:16

To Char—Just because

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

The last time Andrew Noble visited Chestnut Grove had been eight months ago, when he’d shown up to surprise his cousin, Rachel, on her birthday. This time, it was to fire her.

He hoped the bouquet of peach roses tucked in the crook of his arm would soften the blow.

Andrew bypassed the spacious reception area of the Noble Foundation and veered toward the stairs that led to the suite of offices on the top floor of the building. Rachel didn’t know he was in town and Andrew didn’t want anyone to warn her. For what he had to do, keeping the element of surprise might be in his favor. He hoped she’d be so happy to see him—and the bouquet of her favorite flowers—that she’d cheerfully hand over the Foundation’s checkbook.

Right.

Even though they had practically grown up together and were more like siblings than first cousins, the Noble Foundation was Rachel’s baby. Her parents, Beatrice and Charles, may have founded the organization, which raised money for worthwhile charities, but Rachel’s energy, drive and creativity had pushed its reputation and influence beyond the boundaries of Virginia. At the moment, her commitment wasn’t in question; her energy level was.

It was the reason his mother, at the urging of his aunt Beatrice, had tracked him down at a friend’s beach house in Malibu the day before.

Andrew wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or insulted that his name had been the one pulled out of the family hat.

Rachel was expecting a baby at the end of the summer and according to Eli Cavanaugh, Rachel’s husband, she’d been feeling unusually fatigued over the past few weeks. Eli had finally gotten her to admit she’d experienced some bouts of dizziness, too. Even though pediatrics, not obstetrics, was Eli’s specialty, he’d shared his concern with Beatrice, who’d shared it with Andrew’s mother. They’d decided someone needed to step in and temporarily ease the reins of the Foundation out of Rachel’s capable hands.

That someone was him. Apparently, the old adage “desperate times call for desperate measures” held some truth.

Andrew exhaled in relief when he saw there was no one at the desk that guarded the entrance to Rachel’s corner office. The staff had a tendency to protect Rachel as if she were the Hope diamond.

He pushed open the door, expecting to see his prototype-for-the-Type-A-personality cousin hard at work. What he saw instead made his blood run cold— Rachel sound asleep in the leather chair, her bare feet propped up on the desk. At nine o’clock in the morning.

He coughed lightly.

Rachel’s body jerked and she bolted upright, wide awake.

“Andrew!”

With a cry of delight, Rachel pushed herself out of the chair and waddled into his arms. “What are you doing here? The baby isn’t due for another few months. Or are you planning to pull another one of your famous disappearing acts on us again?”

Andrew planted a kiss on her cheek, not missing the purple shadows under her eyes and the lines of fatigue bracketing her mouth. Guilt kicked in as he realized his aunt hadn’t exaggerated Rachel’s condition. He didn’t know anything about pregnant women, but even to his inexperienced eyes she looked completely worn out.

He decided honesty was the best policy.

“I’m here to take over the Noble Foundation. By force, if necessary, but I’m hoping these roses will do the trick.”

Rachel accepted the bouquet, her expression wry. “You heard.”

Andrew sauntered over to the leather chair and sat down. “Word on the street is that you haven’t been feeling well.”

“I should have known. Our mothers are ganging up on me and they sent you to do their dirty work.” Rachel crossed her arms over her bulging abdomen. “It’s just normal pregnancy stuff. I am carrying the equivalent of an airline-approved carry-on around my middle.”

Andrew just looked at her until she gave an irritated little huff. “You can lower that arrogant eyebrow of yours. I admit it. Dr. Bingham is a little concerned about the swelling in my hands and feet. Overly concerned, if you ask me. He and Eli are friends, so…” Her eyes narrowed. “Did Eli call you?”

“I plead the Fifth.” Andrew grinned. “I received an order from the top to take control of things here while you go home, put your feet up and watch the cooking channel.”

Rachel scowled.

“Or knit baby booties.”

The flash of longing in her eyes surprised him. “I don’t knit.”

“You don’t cook, either, but that hasn’t stopped you from trying to master it. For the past two years.”

“Did I ever tell you that you’re my favorite cousin? Because if I did, I take it back. And all the other nice things I might have said to inflate your already enormous ego—”

The intercom interrupted her. Rachel reached for the phone but Andrew beat her to it. “What’s your secretary’s name?”

“Zoe.” Rachel tried to pluck the phone out of his hand.

“Andrew Noble.” He winced as a high-pitched squeak pinched his eardrum. Probably because he’d managed to sneak in when she’d abandoned her post. “What can I do for you, Zoe?”

Rachel attempted another hostile takeover so Andrew swiveled the chair around. “Tell Mr. Chrone I’ll be the one meeting with him tomorrow morning about the estate. That’s right. Me.” Andrew hung up the phone and faced his cousin again. “Why are you still here?”

“What did they bribe you with to come to Chestnut Grove?” Rachel demanded. “Virginia is a long way from Rhode Island. Whatever it was, I’ll double it if you leave quietly.”

“No one bribed me.” Andrew shrugged. “I’m the only one in the family who leads the kind of wastrel existence that allows me to take over a huge charitable organization without advanced notice. Not that I’m not qualified to spend other people’s money. I’ve been doing that with Great-Grandpa’s trust fund for years.”

The flicker of sadness in Rachel’s eyes scraped against Andrew’s conscience. She might not listen to the gossip but she read the papers. There was no getting around the fact that, over the years, his reputation as an irresponsible playboy had stained the fabric of the Noble family. Still, they’d remained stubbornly loyal to him. Especially Rachel.

Sending up a prayer for forgiveness, he used that loyalty to his advantage. “Unless you don’t trust me?”

She rolled her eyes. “Please. Your smile will probably raise more money in a day than I could in a month. It’s just that…there’s no reason for all this fuss. I’m fine.”

Andrew might have believed her if she hadn’t ended the sentence by yawning.

“You don’t have to prove anything, Rachel. Let me take care of the Foundation while you take care of yourself and the baby. If Bingham gives you the green light to keep working, I’ll abdicate the throne.” He patted the leather armrests on the chair. “I promise.”

Because he expected round two, the sudden relief in her eyes stunned him.

“Fine. You win. You can even move into my loft if you need a place to stay. And come for dinner—”

Andrew had tasted Rachel’s cooking, and she was more gifted in the boardroom than she was the kitchen. “The Starlight Diner is just down the street.”

He laughed when Rachel glowered at him.

“If you need anything—”

“I’ll ask Zoe.”

“Mr. Chrone—”

“Collects baseball cards and raises African Violets,” Andrew finished.

“All right.” She didn’t move.

Andrew arched a brow. “Now what do you need?”

She grinned and wiggled her bare toes in the carpet. “My shoes. They’re under the desk.”

“Billionaire bachelor alert.” Miranda Jones looked up as Darcy, the young waitress who shared the breakfast and lunch shift with her at the Starlight Diner, swept into the kitchen and gave her a teasing grin. “And he’s sitting in your section. Again.”

Andrew Noble.

Miranda’s concentration dissolved. If a list of the world’s most eligible bachelors existed, Andrew’s name probably appeared at the top of it. The Noble family was the equivalent of American royalty and Andrew, the prince. The media loved him, even if all they could report were the details of his latest adventure in some exotic locale or the name of the woman who happened to be at his side for one of the Noble Foundation’s many fund-raising events.

He’d come into the diner earlier in the week and Miranda guessed he was visiting his cousin, Rachel Cavanaugh. Why he’d chosen the Starlight instead of one of Richmond’s swanky, award-winning restaurants, she had no idea. And now he was back. Three days later.

“You can wait on him,” she murmured. “I have to deliver this order to the boys at table five before they waste away.”

Darcy’s gum snapped in surprise, but then she grinned. “I’m not going to turn down that tip. Or the chance to stare into those dreamy eyes.” She sighed dramatically and put one hand over her heart.

“What about Greg?” Miranda felt compelled to bring up the name of the young deliveryman Darcy had been mooning over for the last two weeks.

“Greg? Greg who?” Darcy winked and straightened the collar of her pink polo shirt—the standard uniform of the diner waitstaff. She sashayed out of the kitchen, humming “Someday My Prince Will Come” under her breath.

Miranda exhaled in relief. Maybe she had just given up a generous tip but something about Andrew Noble flustered her.

You mean, other than the obvious, a voice in her head mocked. That he’s incredibly easy on the eyes and wealthy enough to live a life of leisure?

Something a working girl like her couldn’t begin to fathom. She’d never had a problem dealing with a customer before but, when Andrew had walked into the diner, her heart had responded with an unsettling kick. Darcy would welcome his attention. Miranda wished he’d find another restaurant.

“M.J. Snap out of it! Order up!” Isaac Tubman’s exasperated shout echoed around the kitchen. And probably the entire dining room. But no one would blink an eye. The regulars were used to the gruff old cook and his occasional tirades.

“Sorry.” Miranda scooped up the tray of hamburgers and took a step toward the swinging doors that separated the kitchen from the dining area.

“Don’t forget the garnish!” Isaac thundered, stopping her in her tracks.

“You’ve been watching Emeril again, haven’t you?” Miranda smiled but dutifully dropped a sprig of wilted parsley onto each plate.

Miranda heard Isaac chuckle as he turned back to the grill. She’d worked at the diner for four years, both as a waitress and a bookkeeper, and she’d learned right away that Isaac’s bark was worse than his bite. When her son, Daniel, had developed bronchitis shortly after Sandra Lange had hired her, it was Isaac who’d shown up at their apartment one evening with a container of homemade chicken noodle soup and his wooden checkerboard to entertain the little boy, giving her a much needed break.

In spite of Miranda’s reluctance to accept help from anyone, the simple gesture had endeared her to the old cook. As a single parent, Miranda had gotten used to doing everything on her own, But Daniel, her thoughtful, wise-beyond-his-years son, had taken to Isaac immediately.

Two years later, Isaac still kept the checkerboard behind the soda fountain for the times Miranda had to bring Daniel to work with her.

Balancing the tray in her hands, Miranda pushed through the doors, no longer feeling as if she were passing through a time warp when she stepped out of the modern kitchen into the 1950s-style dining area. “Rock Around the Clock” blared out of the juke box, not quite drowning out the cheer from the teenage boys who saw her approaching with their burgers.

The commotion snagged Andrew Noble’s attention. He glanced up and their eyes met.

The pictures of him that frequently graced the society page of the Richmond Gazette didn’t do him justice. Black ink might have accurately captured the color of his hair, but it didn’t give a hint that his eyes were a warm, sunlight-in-the-woods shade of hazel. The lazy half smile he directed at the cameras—the one that gave him an air of mystery and drove the gossip columnists crazy—was even more potent in real life.

She could attest to that because at the moment it was directed right at her.

Miranda quickly averted her eyes and broke the connection.

She refused to act like a starstruck groupie. Men like Andrew Noble wielded too much power. And she knew from bitter experience that men could use their position and power to hurt other people. Hal had taught her that lesson and she wasn’t going to let history repeat itself. Not when the wounds he’d inflicted had yet to heal.

At table five, eager hands reached for the tray. They reminded Miranda of Daniel and she smiled. “Patience, boys. The burgers aren’t going to walk off the plates.”

She divvied up the order and went to the soda fountain to refill their drinks. The boys came in every Friday for lunch and Miranda knew them by name. She also knew the grand sum of her tip would be the handful of change they pooled in the center of the table before they left. They meant well, although a dollar tip wasn’t going to have a significant impact on her meager savings account. Over the past few months, Daniel had sprouted like Jack’s beanstalk, outgrowing all his clothes from the previous summer. Which meant a trip to the mall in Richmond was needed.

Miranda tried to suppress the wave of discouragement that threatened to crash over her. She’d find a way. Sandra was always willing to let her pick up another shift if she needed it.

“Andrew!” As if conjured up by Miranda’s thoughts, Sandra’s lilting voice swept through the diner. She made a habit of chatting with each and every customer who came into the Starlight.

Sandra gave Miranda’s arm an affectionate pat as she breezed past and paused to talk to Andrew. “It’s nice to see you again. I figured you’d be long gone by now.”

“I’m afraid Chestnut Grove is stuck with me for a while.” Andrew’s New England accent was clipped but pleasant, and Miranda resisted the urge to look at him again, to see if the smile she heard in his voice was reflected in his eyes. “Rachel’s been feeling a little tired lately so I’m going to keep an eye on things at the Foundation.”

Which meant he wasn’t just passing through town. Miranda felt a strange mixture of relief and dread bubble up inside of her. It was the relief that disturbed her.

“Rachel and the baby are all right, aren’t they?” The concern in Sandra’s voice stilled Miranda’s hands as she waited to hear Andrew’s response. Rachel and her friends had been coming to the Starlight for brunch every Sunday after church for as long as she’d worked at the diner.

“She has an appointment with her doctor this morning, which will give us a better indication about what’s going on.”

“Please tell Rachel I’ll add her and Eli and the baby to my prayer list,” Sandra said.

“She’ll appreciate that, Ms. Lange.”

“Sandra,” she said, correcting him. “This is the Starlight Diner, my dear, not the Ritz.”

“I’ll remember that, Sandra.”

The warmth in his voice somehow made him seem more approachable. Miranda could almost imagine he was just another one of the diner’s regulars.

In Armani.

“Sandra! Order up!” Isaac’s voice boomed above the music and the steady hum of conversation.

“Someone should remind that man I’m the one who owns the place.” Sandra laughed and maneuvered her way back through the maze of tables, greeting people by name on her way to the kitchen.

Miranda double-checked the bill before she presented it to the boys and then turned to slip away.

Andrew Noble was looking right at her. Again.

Miranda couldn’t blame the jolt that coursed through her on Isaac’s high-octane coffee. She’d only had one cup since her shift had started.

“I’d like a refill when you have a minute—” his eyes drifted to her name tag “—Miranda.”

She nodded but it didn’t feel like a normal nod. It felt like she’d suddenly turned into one of those bobble-headed dolls. “I’ll tell Darcy.”

Where was Darcy?

Feeling slightly panicked, Miranda scanned the diner but there was no sign of the girl anywhere.

“I think she’s busy with a cleanup on aisle six,” Andrew said helpfully.

Miranda lowered her gaze and sure enough, Darcy was crouched next to a portable high chair, mopping up a waterfall of fruit punch cascading over the side of the tray.

So much for avoiding Andrew Noble.

Chapter Two

Miranda.

Andrew watched her stop and chat briefly with an elderly gentleman who sat alone at a table. She was smiling again but it wasn’t the distant, polite one she’d bestowed upon him. No. This one was natural. It momentarily transformed her entire face, softening the curve of her lips and bringing a faint blush of color to her cheeks.

He’d noticed her the first time he’d come into the diner a few days ago. And he wasn’t sure why. With her hair secured in a severe twist at the nape of her neck and not a speck of makeup on her face, she obviously wasn’t the kind of woman who tried to court attention.

In fact, it seemed as if she’d gone out of her way to avoid him.

And she was doing it again.

Which—he hated to admit—chipped at his pride a little. He wasn’t used to women running in the opposite direction when they saw him.

For crying out loud. Get over yourself, Noble.

“Excuse me.” She returned with the coffeepot and Andrew pushed his cup closer. He tried to make eye contact but she didn’t cooperate, intent on searching for something in the pocket of her apron rather than looking at him.

“Cream or sugar?” She finally glanced up, long enough for him to glimpse captivating flecks of gold in her autumn-brown eyes.

“Cream. Thank you.” It was all he could come up with. Andrew wanted to bang his head against the table. He’d had dinner with heads of state and vacationed with celebrities, but a slender waitress with soulful eyes had suddenly reduced his vocabulary to that of a three-year-old. A very shy three-year-old.

“M.J.!” Isaac poked his head out of the pass-through between the kitchen and dining room. “Where are you? The cheese on this burger is aging. I’m going to have to raise the price if it sits up here any longer.”

Andrew saw Miranda bite her lip to hold back a laugh and took advantage of the moment to draw her out. “What does the J stand for?”

Wariness instantly replaced the laughter that backlit her eyes. “Jones.”

Andrew got the impression that only the Starlight’s reputation as a friendly diner prevented her from ignoring his question.

He opened his mouth to say something—anything—else but she beat him to it. “If you need something, just get Darcy’s attention.”

On cue, the young woman who’d been sidetracked by the toddler’s spill dashed over to his table. Her eyes sparkled and her smile bordered on flirtatious. If her bleach-blond hair hadn’t been pulled back in a ponytail, Andrew was sure she would have given it one of those teasing, off-the-shoulder flips.

“Are you interested in dessert today, Mr. Noble?”

Andrew buried a sigh. That was what he was used to.

“Not today. The boss only gives me an hour for lunch.”

She giggled. “Me, too!” Her tone clearly implied that now they had something in common. Andrew looked for Miranda but she’d disappeared into the kitchen.

Fortunately, Sandra came to his rescue.

“Darcy!” She motioned the waitress over to the counter.

The waitress’s shoulders drooped but she gave Andrew an irrepressible smile. “If you need a warm-up—on your coffee, just holler.”

In spite of his overzealous waitress, Andrew lingered at the diner until the lunch crowd cleared out. Maybe it was because there wasn’t a single thing on the menu preceded by the words light or fat-free. Or because Isaac and Sandra treated him the way they did everyone else who came through the door—with down-home charm and a complete lack of pretense.

Or maybe it’s because you’re hoping to get another glimpse of Miranda Jones.

What was it about her that piqued his interest? She was pretty in an understated way, but something else about her intrigued him.

Because she didn’t write her phone number on your bill?

That brought back an unwelcome memory. A few years ago, one of the newspapers had taken his picture while he’d toured a coast guard cutter. A photographer had caught him off guard, capturing the bored expression on his face. It was a direct contrast to the adoring gaze of the officer’s daughter who’d latched on to his arm like a barnacle on the hull of the ship at the beginning of the tour. The tongue-in-cheek caption accompanying the photo had humorously noted that Andrew seemed to be more interested in the search than the rescue.

Andrew had developed a thick skin over the years when it came to the outrageous claims the gossip columns printed, but that one still bothered him. Especially because he wondered if there wasn’t some truth to it.

He did lose interest. Quickly.

Which made him a little afraid that he was that guy. The guy who couldn’t commit. Or maybe it was because he’d never met a woman who was more interested in his life than his lifestyle.

The cell phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket. He would have ignored it if Rachel’s name wasn’t the one displayed on the tiny screen. They’d grown up together and, because they were only a few years apart in age, they seemed more like siblings than cousins. Which meant he couldn’t pass up an opportunity to tease her when he answered the phone.

“This is Andrew Noble, temporary administrator of the Noble Foundation.”

“Not so temporary, I’m afraid.”

Andrew’s smile faded at the discouragement in Rachel’s voice. “What did Dr. Bingham say?”

“I… Here. Can you talk to Eli for a minute?” Rachel’s voice cracked.

“Sure.” Andrew sent up a quick, silent prayer that whatever Rachel and Eli were facing, God would give them the strength they needed to endure it.

“Andrew?” Eli’s voice shook a little, too. “Dr. Bingham diagnosed Rachel with preeclampsia. And he put her on bed rest until the baby comes.”

“Pre what?” Andrew tried to process the word and drew a blank.

“Preeclampsia. He said it’s not uncommon for a first pregnancy and because we caught it early, she and the baby should be fine.”

Should be fine.

“So what can Bingham do to cure it?” He siphoned out the concern he felt and deliberately kept his tone brisk; if there was a diagnosis, there had to be a cure. This was the twenty-first century….

“There is no cure.” Eli’s next words shot his theory all to pieces. “The only thing that takes care of it is delivering the baby, but it’s too soon. That’s why Dr. Bingham is putting Rachel on bed rest.”

Rachel and bed rest.

“I know.” Eli sighed, as if he’d read Andrew’s mind. “We’re on our way home now but Rachel wants to talk to you again.”

“Andrew?” Rachel didn’t sound at all like the take-charge woman he knew and loved. “I know you were coerced into running the Foundation but you had no idea it was going to be for more than a few days. I’m officially letting you off the hook. Mom and Dad can hire someone—”

“Don’t worry about it. The only thing I have planned for the next few months is a trip to St. Bart’s…and a race in Monaco. No one will miss me.”

The clink of silverware distracted him. Andrew had been so focused on the conversation he hadn’t realized someone was clearing the booth right behind him. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Miranda Jones walking away.

“If you’re sure…” Rachel’s voice faded and Andrew knew the reality of the situation was sinking in.

“All I want you to do is let Eli tuck you into bed with the remote control and your knitting needles. I’ll be over this evening with a gallon of mint chocolate-chip ice cream.”

“Andrew…thanks. I know St. Bart’s is a lot more fun than sitting behind a desk.”

“I’m praying for you,” Andrew murmured. “God wasn’t surprised by this—trust Him. He’s going to get you through it.”

He snapped the phone shut and stared out the window, knowing he had to take his own advice.

Okay, Lord, what’s up? Because if You wanted to work on building patience in Rachel, couldn’t You have picked something a little easier? Like a really long red light at the intersection?

He did a quick calculation. The baby wasn’t due until the end of summer. This derailed his schedule in unforeseen ways. He did have plans to go to St. Bart’s and he was sponsoring a new driver—but there were other commitments he couldn’t share with Rachel. Or anyone else.

The feet on the Elvis Presley clock on the wall began to dance, reminding him breaktime was officially over. He had to go back to the Foundation to tell the employees the good news—that the guy who had a reputation as a spendthrift playboy was about to take over the distribution of millions of dollars to worthwhile charities.

Judging from the cautious looks he’d been getting all week, everyone expected him to mess up. And it wasn’t as if he could put their minds at ease. Not without totally destroying the image he’d spent years cultivating.

Andrew passed the table a pack of teenage boys had taken over earlier and noticed the pile of change—mostly dimes and nickels—next to the ketchup bottle. That was all those kids could scrape together? They probably spent more renting a video game.

He looked around to make sure no one was watching and discreetly tucked a ten-dollar bill between the ketchup and mustard bottles, hoping it would put a smile on Miranda Jones’s face.

“Bye, Andrew. You have a good afternoon now.” Sandra popped up from behind the counter as he moved toward the door. “And come back soon.”

When Miranda peeked out of the kitchen and saw the empty booth by the window, she took the first deep breath her lungs would allow during the last hour. The exact amount of time Andrew Noble had been in the diner.

St. Bart’s. Monaco. And he’d dropped the names so matter-of-factly. As if he were going to the grocery store and then on his way home, he planned to swing by the Laundromat.

An ember of disgust flared inside her. People struggled to make ends meet while men like Andrew Noble went from one source of entertainment to another, spending money they hadn’t even worked for. A poster boy for the idle rich.

An incredibly good-looking poster boy….

Miranda tried to shake the thought away before it took hold and formed an image of perfectly chiseled features, tousled black hair and eyes a warm palette of soft greens and browns.

Too late.

Okay, he was good-looking. She could admit it. So was a mile-high slice of Sandra’s French silk pie. Solid proof that not everything that looked good was good for you.

And there was no point even thinking about Andrew Noble. The diner might be conveniently located down the street from the Noble Foundation but he wouldn’t be back. In the world he inhabited, filet mignon was the staple, not chicken-fried steak with a side of mashed potatoes.

Darcy came alongside her, waving a crisp ten-dollar bill. “This is for you. I already cleared tables four and five. And here I thought Mr. Gorgeous and Available would be the big tipper of the day.”

Miranda frowned. Table four had been Mr. Walrich, whose standing order of a piece of banana-cream pie and a cup of coffee garnered her a shiny fifty-cent piece as a tip. That left the boys at table five….

“Maybe it’s back pay for all the times they didn’t leave you a tip,” Darcy joked.

“If that were true, I’d be able to send Daniel to Harvard,” Miranda said, tucking the bill into her apron pocket. “But who am I to complain?”

“I sure wouldn’t be complaining if Andrew Noble had written his phone number on the five-dollar bill he left me,” Darcy said, a blissful expression on her face.