She swallowed hard and sagged against the rail. Dozens of memories, yellowed with age, their edges softened as the years had passed, swam through her mind. “So am I,” she said roughly, then cleared her throat.

“You knew him well?”

Better than anyone, she thought, then realized that wasn’t the truth, either. Dave had kept to himself, for the most part. As naive as she’d been all those years ago, she’d sensed that he was holding back, that even during their lovemaking there had been a part of him he’d kept hidden and remote; a part she would never understand. “I’m not sure anyone really knew Dave,” she admitted. “As I said, he didn’t live here all that long.”

“A year or two, the way Ralph talks about it.”

“Yeah, about eighteen months, I think.”

“He involved with any girls back then?” Luke asked, and she stiffened.

“I, uh, I don’t think he dated much. Why?” She couldn’t help but ask. There were questions in his eyes she didn’t understand, didn’t want to trust.

“Ralph seemed to think he might’ve had a girlfriend.”

“He could have,” she hedged. Though tempted, she wasn’t about to tell this sexy stranger that she’d been involved with Dave Sorenson. Not until she’d spoken with her son. Josh deserved the truth. All of it. “So . . . tell me about your plans.”

She needed to change the subject. She’d dwelled enough on the subject of Dave Sorenson. She’d mourn her first and only lover in private and then confide in her son. Josh might hate her for keeping the truth from him, might never forgive her for not allowing him the privilege of knowing his father, but she couldn’t keep Dave’s death from him.

Luke hesitated for a second, as if he had more questions, but he eyed her, tugged on his lip and lifted a shoulder. “Let me show you around.”

He opened the door and led her into the main house, a building she’d been inside only twice before, long ago, and both times in the middle of the night, with Dave holding her hand and leading her through the darkened rooms.

It hadn’t changed much. From the looks of the curtains, she imagined that they were at least twenty years old; the furniture, too, felt as if it had been in the house for two decades. A couch with wooden arms and feet, tables nicked and scarred, a leather recliner that was worn in the arms and where a man’s head had rested.