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Also good.

“She seemed perfectly respectable at dinner,” Olivia said. “Maybe she outgrew her criminal ways.”

“I don’t think she was ever really a criminal.” That voice was Riley’s. “If somebody had spray-painted a slur about one of my friends in a place where every student was going to see it, I would’ve painted over it too.”

“But the girl wasn’t actually her friend,” his father said. “Marlowe was a cheerleader, and from what Jace said, the other girl was unpopular. How many cheerleaders would commit a crime to protect someone who wasn’t even their friend?”

Good point. It was that fact that had drawn Jace to Marlowe back in high school.

“It seems just as likely,” his father went on, “that Marlowe was the one who spray-painted the first slur, then realized she could get in trouble for bullying, and went back to get rid of the evidence. Otherwise, a person would just alert the store manager and let him handle the situation.”

Nope. Despite mean-girl cheerleading stereotypes, there was no way Marlowe had been responsible for the slur. She’d never bullied anyone in high school. Before every football and basketball game, she hand-wrote encouraging messages on heart-shaped Post-it notes and left them on the players’ lockers.

Good luck! You’re awesome! You’re always a winner!

The notes were supposedly from the cheerleading team, but most of the handwriting was Marlowe’s. It must’ve taken her forever to write them.

“That’s how you think Marlowe should have handled it?” Lucas asked. “You actually believe Mr. Copley would’ve done anything before a stream of students passed by?” Lucas snorted. “You can tell by the way he treated Jace how much he cared about teenagers.”

“How did he treat Jace?” Olivia asked.

His father grumbled, and the clacking of the dishes grew louder. “That part of Marlowe’s criminal past isn’t as well known.”

Time to put an end to this conversation. Jace called out, “I’m back,” and headed into the kitchen.

Kye and Elsie had disappeared somewhere, but the rest of the family was there.

Jace turned to his mother. “Great dinner, Mom.” It hadn’t escaped him that his mother hadn’t weighed in with an opinion on Marlowe. Her opinion mattered most because his mother could easily sway his father. Jace held his breath for it.

She put her hand around his waist and gave him a brief hug. “I’m glad you liked dinner. Having the family together again is so nice. I just wish Carson and Olivia didn’t have to go back to Denver so soon.” She sent them a wistful, motherly look.

Yep, time to pay attention to the golden child again. The one who was famous and had married a woman his parents loved.

“What did you think of Marlowe?” he asked the room, then before anyone could answer, he added, “I told her she didn’t need to be nervous about meeting you, but she totally was.” He forced a laugh, the oblivious sort. “I said all she had to do to get on your good side was to stop quoting the communist manifesto, but I hadn’t expected her to swing completely the other way with Bible verses.”

His mother pursed her lips in studied thought. “Well, it’s nice that she’s trying to get along with your family. That’s certainly more than Jennifer ever did.”

Riley nodded in agreement. “Marlowe has a sense of humor and is interesting. If we’re taking a vote, I vote for her.”

“Me too,” Olivia said. “I’ll take someone who believes in auras and crystals over someone who believes she’s better than everyone else.”

“We’re not taking a vote,” Jace said. “You guys don’t get a vote on my love life.”

Lucas spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “We don’t have to vote between the two because the Jennifer era is over. And who knows how many women Jace will date before he decides to settle down.” He paused and smirked. “Although I do think we should have Marlowe read our auras before you go back to California.”

Their mother put on a patient smile. “Marlowe’s history aside, it was nice of her to volunteer to make pies for the bazaar. That’s more than anyone else has offered.” The last sentence had an edge of accusation tacked on.

Olivia shrugged apologetically. “You wouldn’t want any pies that I made.”

“Ditto,” Riley said.

Carson held his hands up in mock surrender. “I will buy you all the pies you want, but don’t ask me to bake any.”

In a teasing tone, Lucas said, “He has people for that.”

“Yeah,” Carson said. “Marie Callender. She’s my people. I’m a big fan of her French Silk.”

His mother picked up a rag from the sink and began wiping off the counter. “If anyone wanted a Marie Callender pie, they could just go to the store and buy it themselves. A bazaar has to have homemade pies. It’s nice to have someone else around who appreciates the art of cooking.”