She hadn’t shared them, Shannon thought as bitterness warred with grief. Not with her own daughter.

So, the very last words she had spoken to her mother had been in anger and contempt. And she could never take them back.

Fists clenched against an enemy she couldn’t see, she rose, turned away from the desk. She’d needed time, damn it. She’d needed time to try to understand, or at least learn to live with it.

Now the tears came, hot and helpless. Because she knew, in her heart, that she wished her mother had died before she’d told her. And she hated herself for it.

After the tears drained out of her, she knew she had to sleep. Mechanically she climbed the stairs, washed her hot cheeks with cool water, and lay, fully clothed, on the bed.

She’d have to sell the house, she thought. And the furniture. There were papers to go through.

She hadn’t told her mother she loved her.

With that weighing on her heart, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

Afternoon naps always left Shannon groggy. She took them only when ill, and she was rarely ill. The house was quiet when she climbed out of bed again. A glance at the clock told her she’d slept less than an hour, but she was stiff and muddled despite the brevity.

She would make coffee, she told herself, and then she would sit down and plan how best to handle all of her mother’s things, and the house she’d loved.

The doorbell rang before she’d reached the base of the stairs. She could only pray it wasn’t some well-meaning neighbor come to offer help or company. She wanted neither at the moment.

But it was a stranger at the door. The man was of medium height, with a slight pouch showing under his dark suit. His hair was graying, his eyes sharp. She had an odd and uncomfortable sensation when those eyes stayed focused on her face.

“I’m looking for Amanda Dougherty Bodine.”

“This is the Bodine residence,” Shannon returned, trying to peg him. Salesman? She didn’t think so. “I’m her daughter. What is it you want?”

Nothing changed on his face, but Shannon sensed his attention sharpening. “A few minutes of Mrs. Bodine’s time, if it’s convenient. I’m John Hobbs.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hobbs, it’s not convenient. I buried my mother this morning, so if you’ll excuse me—”

“I’m sorry.” His hand went to the door, holding it open when Shannon would have closed it. “I’ve just arrived in town from New York. I hadn’t heard about your mother’s death.” Hobbs had to rethink and regroup quickly. He’d gotten too close to simply walk away now. “Are you Shannon Bodine?”

“That’s right. Just what do you want, Mr. Hobbs?”

“Your time,” he said pleasantly enough, “when it’s more convenient for you. I’d like to make an appointment to meet with you in a few days.”

Shannon pushed back the hair tumbled from her nap. “I’ll be going back to New York in a few days.”