“Instead he married my mother.”

Neither spoke for a long moment. Janine remembered little of her parents, only bits and pieces of memory, mostly unconnected. What she did recall were terrible fights and accusations, a house filled with strife. She could remember hiding under her bed when the shouting started, pressing her hands to her ears. It was her father who used to find her, who comforted her. Always her father. Her memory included almost nothing of her mother. Even pictures didn’t jar her recollection, although Janine had spent hour upon hour looking at photographs, hoping to remember something. But the woman who’d given birth to her had remained a stranger to her in life and in death.

“You’re the only consolation I have from Steven’s marriage,” Anton said hoarsely. “At least I had you after Steven and Patrice died.”

“Oh, Gramps. I love you so much and I hate to disappoint you, but I can’t marry Zach and I can’t see him agreeing to marry me.”

Her grandfather was silent after that, apparently mulling over her words as he finished his dinner. “I suppose I seem like a feeble old man, still trying to live the old ways.”

“Gramps, no, I don’t think that at all.”

He planted his elbows squarely on the table and linked his fingers, gazing at her. His brow was puckered in a contemplative frown. “Perhaps it would help if you told me what you want in a husband.”

She hesitated, then glanced away, avoiding eye contact. Once she’d been so certain of what she wanted. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure. Romance, I suppose.”

“Romance.” Gramps rolled the word off his tongue as though he was tasting an expensive wine.

“Yes,” she said with a nod of her head, gaining confidence.

“And what exactly is romance?”

“Well…” Now that she’d been called upon to define it, Janine couldn’t quite put that magical feeling into words. “It’s…it’s an awareness that comes from the heart.”

“The heart,” her grandfather repeated, smacking his palm against his chest.

“Romance is the knowledge that a man would rather die than live his life without me,” she said, warming to the subject.

“You want him to die?”

“No, just to be willing.”

Gramps frowned. “I don’t think I understand.”

“Romance is forbidden trysts on lonely Scottish moors,” she added, thinking of an historical romance she’d read as a teenager.

“There aren’t any moors in the Seattle area.”

“Don’t distract me,” she said, smiling, her thoughts gaining momentum. “Romance is desperate passion.”

He snorted. “That sounds more like hormones to me.”

“Gramps, please!”

“How can I understand when all you say is ridiculous things? You want romance. First you claim it’s a feeling in the heart, then you say it’s some kind of passion.”

“It’s more than that. It’s walking hand in hand along the beach at twilight and gazing into each other’s eyes. It’s speaking of love without ever having to say the words.” She paused, feeling a little foolish at getting so carried away. “I don’t know if I can adequately describe it.”