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Manicured fingernails.

“Trey, honey, this is Mr. Paul Bouvet who is redoing your grandmother’s house. Paul, say hello to Trey Delaney.”

“Thought I’d see you when you closed on the house, but I had to be out of town,” Trey said. “Glad to meet you at last.”

Paul expected to feel a shock of electricity between them when he touched the man’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” He smiled, but his eyes searched for features he could recognize from the only picture he had of his father. A second later he wondered whether anyone looking at him and Trey could see any resemblance.

“My real name is Paul Edward Delaney, but nobody ever calls me anything but Trey.”

The picture of Paul’s father had been taken with his mother in Paris when his father was no more than twenty-five. It wasn’t a very good one, either, and had begun to fade. Paul was now thirty-five, which made Trey thirty-three.

Trey had their father’s eyes and light hair and skin, already roughened by days in the sun.

Paul had inherited his mother’s dark eyes and hair, but for anyone who looked closely, the resemblance was noticeable. Paul decided that it would be better if he kept his meetings with Trey as private as possible and away from the knowledgeable eyes of someone like Ann, who must be used to analyzing faces for her restoration work.

Only Paul knew that they were half brothers, one raised as a wealthy planter’s son in west Tennessee, one raised by a plumber uncle and a French aunt who baked bread in Queens, New York. He intended to keep it that way for as long as possible.

To everyone around them, it was a casual introduction in a small-town caf'e. Nothing special.

“Glad you’re bringing the old place to life,” Trey said, “though Lord knows why you’d want to. Sue-sue—she’s my wife—and I thought we’d never unload that monstrosity. Oops. Better keep my mouth shut.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t want to live there yourself.”

Sarah laughed. Trey laughed. Ann snickered.

“Aunt Sarah,” Trey said, “can’t you just see Sue-sue living in a house with itty-bitty closets and no whirlpool? No, Mr. Bouvet. You’re welcome to it. Too much ancestor worship around this town, anyway, and a damn sight too much in my family. Doesn’t matter who you came from, just what you do on your own, am I right, Annie?”

“It helps if you start by inheriting a bunch of land, a few million dollars and a couple of thousand head of cattle.”

“Can’t make a dime farming, isn’t that right, Aunt Sarah?” Trey turned to Paul. “You ever hear the one about the farmer who won the ten-million-dollar lottery? When they asked him what he was going to do with it, he said, ‘I guess I’ll just keep farming till it’s gone.’” He laughed. A little too loud, a little too long.

Paul smiled back.

“Well, y’all, I got to get my nose back to the grindstone.” Trey waved over his shoulder and walked past them out the restaurant toward the square.

Bills paid, the three others went out to where Dante waited patiently with his leash looped around the rail. Paul realized he hadn’t asked about the bear in front of Trey’s office. He’d make it a point to find out when he spoke to Trey about the people who’d bought the antiques at Miss Addy’s house sale.

“Gotta get back to work,” Buddy said. “Ann, you coming?”

“In a minute. Dante needs a walk.”

“Okay.”

She unhooked Dante’s leash and walked off toward the little park beside the railroad track. Dante glanced over his immense shoulder as if to say to Paul, “You coming?”

Paul ambled after the pair.

“I promise I’m not sloughing off,” Ann said. “You’ll get your money’s worth out of me, Mr. Bouvet. I’m planning to work late tonight—unless my being in the house will bother you, assuming you decide to stay there.”

“I’m going to give it my best shot. I’m off to stock up on things like an inflatable mattress and some kind of chest of drawers to stow my stuff in. Never did get used to sleeping on a cot even in flight school.”

“Flight school? You were in the military?”

“Air Force. Went to the academy, then served out my time before I left to fly transports for a private company.”

“So you flew F-15s or whatever number they’re up to now?”

“I usually flew C-150s—low and slow. The perfect training to fly civilian package transport.”

“Why’d you quit? Uh…retire?”

He grimaced. “Couldn’t pass the transport-flight physical any longer. I got hurt in a work-related accident. Left me with a bum shoulder.” Technically, the near-crash had been work-related, which was why the payoff had been so large. He was embarrassed that he hadn’t prevented the whole incident. His wound and scars embarrassed him further. He talked about the details as seldom as possible.

She must have heard something in his voice, because she dropped the subject. “I think Dante’s ready to go back to work. See you tonight, Mr. Bouvet.”

“Isn’t it about time you dropped the Mr. Bouvet stuff? I’ve been calling you Ann all morning.”

“Sure. Paul. Do you have a middle name?”

“I have one, but unlike the Delaneys, no one ever uses it. Actually, my middle name is Antoine. My mother was French.”

“You don’t look like an Antoine. You need a nickname. How about Top Gun?”

“I was never that. How about One Wing? More appropriate.”

They had reached the sidewalk in front of the mansion. She waved goodbye and ran up the walk and the stairs. Her ponytail bounced as the bright red scarf she’d tied around it flew in the breeze. Those jean-clad hips had a great sway to them when she ran.

No way. It wasn’t that he was some kind of saint when it came to romancing women, but even he drew the line at seducing a woman merely to gain information. Besides, she was some sort of cousin.

He’d thought he would do anything to find out what happened to his mother. Since meeting Ann and Sarah and Buddy, he knew he had limits. As far as Trey Delaney was concerned, the jury was still out. He seemed pleasant enough, if a little arrogant. No, actually, a lot arrogant. Even Ann picked up on that self-made man crap. Big frog, small pond.

Wonder how Trey would feel if suddenly he was faced with losing it all?

Wills were a matter of record. All he had to do was go to the local county seat and request a copy of Paul Delaney’s will from probate court files. He knew that his parents had been married at the time of his birth so no matter how the will was written, he, as the oldest legitimate son, would be entitled to a portion of it. He hoped, however, that he’d find that the oldest son was heir to everything. He could cut Trey out of everything he owned. Not that Paul intended to keep it, of course. What the hell did he know about farming or cows or cotton or soybeans?