He’d worked so hard for a smile that Bree had to give him one. It was genuine, actually. She’d known the white-haired physician half her life and loved him to bits. And having seen more doctors than she cared to count over the past few weeks, she still valued Dr. Willming’s opinion most. Lowering her eyes to mask the frustration that was pictured there, she reached down for her purse.

“Bree, it would help a great deal if you’d get it through your pretty head that you were not responsible for your grandmother’s death,” the doctor continued in that low, vibrant voice of his. “You know her heart had been weak for years, and you know that no one could have done anything to prevent what happened. Now, I want you to get some solid rest and put a few hefty pounds under your belt.”

Bree glanced first at the doctor’s ponderous belly and then at her own slim, belted form. At Dr. Willming’s irrepressible chuckle, she felt her own lips twitch. Five minutes later, she escaped the good doctor’s fiftieth round of reassurances-after an affectionate hug-and let herself out into the long corridor between offices. Her leather heels clicked a staccato rhythm on the shiny linoleum, slowing only when she stepped outside and faced a flat gray rain.

Maybe there was another city as ugly as South Bend at winter’s end and in the middle of a downpour, but Bree doubted it. By the time she climbed into her car, water was dribbling down the nape of her neck, her hair was slicked to her scalp and even her eyelashes were dripping. Shivering, she jabbed the key into the ignition, started the engine and then, for no reason at all, leaned back in the seat and shut her eyes.

Dr. Willming had been coddling her for two weeks. Bree wanted to feel grateful, and instead was inclined to pull out her hair. Being treated like spun sugar was exhausting. Actually, she’d always thought of herself as a little more of the lemon than the meringue.