JUSTINE CONSIDERED GETTING THE SPARE KEY TO THE innkeeper’s apartment, but thought Hope’s privacy had been compromised enough for one day. Instead she climbed up to the third floor, her mind brewing dark thoughts about foolish women who blamed other people for a bad marriage, and men who couldn’t strap on the balls to deal with tears.

She raised her hand to knock on Hope’s apartment door. And it opened, quickly, smoothly.

Hope instantly sprang up from where she sat weeping on the couch.

“I didn’t open it.” Justine lifted her hands to show them empty. “Someone’s looking out for you.”

“I just need a few minutes to settle down.”

“What you need is a shoulder, and if it weren’t so early in the day, a good three fingers of whiskey. We’ll settle for the shoulder and the tea I’m going to make—in a minute.”

She walked straight over, put her arms around Hope, and pulled her in tight.

“Oh God. God!” Hope managed, helpless against the unquestioning support. “It was horrible.”

Soothing, soothing, Justine rocked a little from side to side. “Well, on a scale of one to ten, one being a paper cut and ten being, say, slicing your hand off with a machete, it only ranked about three. But that’s bad enough.”

“I’m so—”

“Don’t you apologize to me again for someone else’s bad behavior.” Though her voice was stern and brisk, Justine rubbed a comforting hand up and down Hope’s back.

“I wasn’t with Jonathan because of my career. And Ryder. . . Please don’t think that.”

“Let’s sit down here while I explain to you why those are unnecessary things to say to me. Honey . . .” Justine’s lips tightened when she studied the red streak still marring Hope’s cheek. “Let me get that ice for you first.”

“It’s all right.” Instinctively Hope lifted a hand to the dull but steady throbbing. “I’m all right.”

“Caught you right on the cheekbone. You’ve got such good ones, but it makes an easy target. Now, you sit.”

Justine walked into the little kitchen, poked in the freezer. “No frozen peas. I always kept frozen peas when the boys were around—still do. God knows they’re always banging themselves up.” She found baggies, filled one with ice. “This’ll do. You hold that on your cheek for a few minutes,” she ordered and passed the makeshift ice pack to Hope.

“Where was I?”

“Justine—”

“Oh, that’s right. You and that worthless prick Jonathan Dickham.”

The deliberate mispronunciation surprised a half laugh out of Hope.

“Every woman’s entitled to a mistake. I had my own worthless prick when I was sixteen and crazy about Mike Truman. He cheated on me with a majorette with big boobs. He’s been divorced twice, and is looking like he’s heading into his third. Goes to show you.”