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“If I remember my American history, that was the war when the British attacked the city of Baltimore and Francis Scott Key saw the flag flying above Fort McHenry the next morning and was inspired to write ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’”

“Well, here’s a little did-you-know. The commanding officer wanted a really huge flag to fly over the fort, so he commissioned a woman from Baltimore to make one. And it was huge, like thirty feet high and forty-two feet long. That was the flag that Key saw the next morning.”

“I did pay attention in my American history class. Major George Armistead was the commander. He wanted to make sure that the British could see the flag from their ships.” Grady added, “I suppose it was the 1814 equivalent of getting in someone’s face.”

“Do you know the name of the flag maker?” she countered.

“No. Do you?”

“You betcha. Mary Pickersgill. There’s a book in the Historical Society library that talks about how she was asked to make that flag and she only had a very limited time to do it. The flag is in the Smithsonian now.”

Grady had made a move to take her hand but she walked with both hands linked behind her back so they were out of reach. When her arms grew tired, she switched her shoulder bag to her left side and looped her hand through the strap to occupy it. It wasn’t that she didn’t want that casual contact with him-she did. In fact, she’d been aching to touch him all day. But he’d be leaving town in a matter of hours, and a public display would only invite questions. She was under constant scrutiny by the police department, and all day long, people she knew had been driving past and waving. She couldn’t bear the looks of pity she knew she’d get when she walked into Cuppachino in the morning. Or the questions that would inevitably come, the speculation that would be made. St. Dennis was still, after all, a small town, and there was little that could stop the gossip once it got rolling. There’d be enough attention on her in the coming days, with her shop having been the victim of the first burglary since the town started trying to attract tourists. To have that same light shining on her love life right now would be overkill.

“This area up here, we call the square,” she continued. “The houses on each corner were among the first built when the town was officially laid out in 1685. Before that, there were land grants, maybe around 1650 or so, that pretty much defined the village area. The brick was all locally made, and the wooden sections that you see were all from trees cut down to clear the area.” She smiled. “Sometimes I like to walk along here and try to picture the way it was back then, with only those few houses, and dirt paths between them. No roads, no cars… just horses and a wagon here and there.” She pointed beyond the square. “You see those woods off to the right? There are trees there that have been standing for more than three hundred years. It’s believed that’s the last of the forest that the early settlers found when they first came here.”

“You’re really into this, aren’t you? Hard to believe you’re not a native.” He seemed so casual, so nonchalant, yet Vanessa could not fail to notice that his eyes were constantly moving, from the passing cars to other pedestrians.

“I’ve learned a lot from Hal. His family has been here since the early 1700s. Imagine that? Being able to trace your family back that far?”

“I guess it’s easy if no one ever left town. There’d be records in the churches of births, marriages, deaths,” he pointed out. “And depending on how well the town kept records of the deeds changing hands, you could trace that, too.”

“I suppose. But for someone…” She stopped herself from saying someone like me. “… someone whose family records are scattered or missing or inaccurate, or just plain unknown, it’s a revelation to find out that some people even know who their first ancestors were who came to this country, and even what ship they came on.” She shook her head and added, “I’ve never even met my real father. I took Keaton from a step-father, but my real dad… I know his name but I don’t know anything about him.”

“Maggie never told you?”

“There’s a lot Maggie hasn’t told me,” Vanessa said drily.

“Have you asked her?” He stopped at the corner when she did. “About the things you don’t know?”

She shook her head from side to side. “I always figured if she felt like talking about him, she would.” She made a face. “Maybe that’s not really true. Maybe I was afraid to ask because-oh, I don’t know. Because she’d blow me off, or maybe not tell the truth, you know, maybe just tell me what she thinks I want to hear.”

“What do you want to hear?”

“Just the truth.” She was taller in the four-inch heels she wore, but still not eye to eye with him. “I would like to know about my father. I always told her it didn’t matter, that I didn’t want to know, but it does matter. I do want to know.”

“If you weren’t honest with her, why would she be honest with you?”

Vanessa frowned. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours.” He took her arm when she wouldn’t give him her hand. “If you want the truth, ask for it. Don’t assume people can read your mind. That’s game playing. I didn’t figure that for your style.”

She crossed the street and started walking back toward town, and he kept in step with her.

“Ness?”

“I heard you.”

“I can see that I upset you,” Grady said. “I’m very sorry. But you brought up-”

“I know I did.” She exhaled a long breath. “I’m not upset with you. I’m upset with myself.”

“Why?”

“Why?” She snorted. “Why should I feel annoyed with myself for telling a man I slept with last night all my deepest secrets?”

“If you can’t share something of yourself with the man you sleep with, maybe you shouldn’t be sleeping with him.”

“We don’t ‘sleep with’ each other. We slept. Past tense,” she corrected him. “We just slept together last night.”

“So you’re telling me I was just a one-night stand?” He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “I feel so… cheap. So… used.”

“You’re not funny.” She kept walking.

“What do you expect me to say?” He caught up with her in one stride. “Ness, I don’t do one-night stands.”

“Of course you do.” She brushed him off. “All guys do.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You stayed with me last night. You’re leaving today,” she pointed out. “One night.”

“So if I leave town today, that means I can’t come back?”

“You mean, like once a year? Or whenever you felt like it?”

Grady whistled, long and low. “You really have a low opinion of men, don’t you?”

When she didn’t answer, he said, “Every guy isn’t out to love you and leave you, Ness, or to hurt you if he stays.”

They walked along in silence for a while.

“You are the oddest man I have ever known.” She shook her head, then fell silent again for the rest of the walk back to the center of town.

“Want to stop for coffee?” he asked as they approached Cuppachino.

She shook her head.

“How ’bout we stop in the art gallery across the street and just take a look around?”

“It won’t open for another few weeks. Rocky, the guy who owns it, usually doesn’t come back to St. Dennis until June first. He has a home in Arizona, and he stays there except for the summer. Anyway, don’t you have to get going?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me? Tired of me already?”

“You said you had to leave St. Dennis by three. It’s almost that now, and you still have to go back to the Inn to get your stuff and check out.”