Sam’s mother came down the front steps and walked toward the car. Marjorie studied the streaks of silver in the older woman’s dark hair, then shifted her gaze to the classic profile. None of the other woman’s features resembled Sam’s. Not the faint gleam in her dark eyes, not the warm, friendly glow in her complexion. Yet if Marjorie had met her in a crowded room, she would have known instantly that this woman was his mother.

Sam helped Marjorie out of the car and slipped his arm over her shoulders.

“Mom and Dad,” he said proudly, “this is Marjorie Majors. Marjorie, my parents, Roy and Irene Bretton.”

“I hope you don’t mind us coming out to greet you like this, but Roy and I couldn’t wait another minute.” Irene took both of Marjorie’s hands in her own and nodded approvingly. “I can’t tell you how very pleased we are to meet you—at last.”

“Thank you. The pleasure is all mine.” Marjorie felt stiff and awkward. The inside of her mouth was dry, yet her hands were moist. Sam’s warmth was the only thing that kept the chill of anxiety from seeping all the way through her bones. She had so little to impress this family with—no real background or prestigious relatives. She could offer them nothing but her love for their son.

“Please come inside. Dinner’s almost ready,” Irene invited, leading the way. “I fixed your favorite, Sam—fried chicken, potatoes and gravy, with my homemade biscuits.”

“Mom’s a wonderful cook,” Sam explained, grinning down at her. He hoped Marjorie knew that he wasn’t concerned about her ability to burn water.

Marjorie’s return smile was feeble at best.

“I’ll give you all his favorite recipes if you want them,” Irene offered Marjorie.

She nodded her thanks, knowing it would be a complete waste of time, but she hated to disillusion Sam’s mother so quickly. Later she would explain that her presence in the kitchen invariably resulted in a fiasco, that when she turned on the stove, the entire Tacoma Fire Department went on standby.

“I better go check on the chicken,” Sam’s mother said, as soon as they entered the house.

The luscious smells that greeted them could have rivaled those in a four-star restaurant. It was obvious that Sam had underplayed his mother’s culinary abilities.

“Let me help,” Marjorie offered hurriedly.

“Nonsense, you’re our guest.” Irene gestured toward the sofa. “Sit down and make yourself at home. I insist.”

Marjorie smiled and tried to relax. Sam’s parents were exactly as she’d expected: warm and sincere.

She lowered herself onto the wide sofa. An afghan, crocheted in fall colors of gold, orange, and brown, was spread across the back.