She took a swallow. The tea slid surprisingly warmly down her throat and heated her belly.

“Not gonna lie, but there might be a touch of bourbon in there.” Claire lifted a hand in oath. “I swear it’s just the tiniest drop, and Tyler is stone-cold sober.”

Choking a laugh, she raised the bottle. “Cheers.” She sipped again and dragged the back of her hand across her mouth.

“I’ll kill him for not telling you.” Taking up the bottle, Claire drank deeply. “You didn’t hear this story from me, but yes. Jane was his med school girlfriend and, by all reports, practically perfect in every way. They got engaged between their third and fourth years and then matched to the same residency program in Boston. After his father’s stroke, Richard asked her to give it all up and come to Green Ridge.”

“And she said no?” Tessa whispered.

Claire pressed her palms to her heart and pooched her bottom lip in a frown. “She said no. And broke his heart into a million pieces.”

“Poor Richard.” Poor Richard who gave his heart to a “practically perfect” physician before Tessa came along. Pity and envy bubbled with birthday cake and bourbon in her stomach.

Claire smiled and squeezed her hand. “You are the best thing that’s happened to that man since I’ve known him. I feel like, with you, he can start to imagine some kind of life outside the hospital, which is more than his father ever did.”

“That’s…that’s really…” She scraped pink frosting from under one fingernail.

“A lot. I know. I’m sorry, honey.”

“A lot” was the understatement of the century. An overbearing father and a deceased mother were a lot. Throw in a black sheep sister, a broken engagement, and a delivery room prophecy, and Richard’s story was practically Shakespearean drama. Except, of course these events comprised his actual life and were terribly, terribly sad. She ached for him. How could she possibly keep her knowledge secret? She met Claire’s gaze and smiled. Thank goodness for girlfriends. “I’m glad you told me. I won’t breathe a word, of course. I’m sure he’ll open up soon.”

“Richard isn’t so complicated. Who hasn’t been totally screwed up by their family, right?”

A stream of lukewarm water strafed the table, spattering dirty plates and napkins.

Grimacing, Claire eyeballed her smart watch. “Shortest puppet show in the history of the universe.”

A swarm of six-year-old boys descended upon the pavilion, dousing one another with Benton’s Grove water cannons.

“That”—Richard paused and wrung his wet shirt—“was the worst puppet show I have ever seen. Absolutely abysmal.” He retrieved the phone from his pocket and glared. “Not a single bar.”

Claire balled soggy napkins and whizzed them past Richard’s face into the trashcan. “More to the point, did Sam and the boys like it?”