“Yeah. But I thought it was because my dad had died.” Tiffany nodded and plucked at the fringe on the cushion of the ottoman. “Anyway, she got over it—at least I thought she did. Then, when I married Philip, she nearly didn’t come to the wedding. He was older, and Mom was certain he was a father figure to me, the only father I’d ever known. She read all sorts of self-help books and told me that I was mixing up love and security and—Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure you didn’t come here to hear my life story, so put away the violins and handkerchiefs. I’m not really bitter, just not interested in the prospect of dealing with a dad I’ve never known.”

“But you live in the same town as him. It seems silly to ignore your own father.” Katie was nothing if not dogged.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Tiffany retorted. “He never was my father. It takes more than getting someone pregnant to earn that title.” She glanced out the window, then added, “Maybe that’s a selfish way to look at it, but too bad. As for John Cawthorne’s wedding—what’s that all about? Brynnie’s said those supposedly sacred words more times than anyone should. I think they should run off and elope. Have some kind of reception when they get back.” Hearing herself, she rolled her eyes. “Like I care.”

“You might more than you want to admit,” Katie ventured.

Before Tiffany could answer, the front door flew open. Thud! The doorknob banged hard against the wall.

“Stephen?” Tiffany was on her feet in an instant.

“Yeah?” a voice cracked, and in the foyer a boy in his early teens appeared. His hair was black and shaggy, his brown eyes filled with distrust. Every visible muscle appeared tense, as if he expected to make a run for it at any moment. He would be handsome in a few years, Bliss supposed, when his jaw had become more defined and his face had caught up with his nose.

“I think you’d better meet someone,” Tiffany said, taking his tense arm and propelling him into the parlor. “This is Bliss Cawthorne. John’s daughter.”

His eyes narrowed. “Another one? Cawthorne? You mean ‘the princess’—”

“Actually, she’s my half-sister,” Tiffany said quickly, as if to cut off whatever derogatory comment he was about to make. “She’s lived in Seattle with John and his wife.”

The princess. The second time she’d heard it in a few minutes. So that was what they’d called her behind her back, what they really thought. Why had she so stupidly agreed to come here? Because Katie had practically shanghaied her, that was why.