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It was game-on to see who would crack first.

Taylor sighed and yielded quietly, “My mother.”

Oscar’s sagging earlobes twitched. His back straightened, and he set down the fork. His eyelids came together, slivers of examination, scanning Taylor’s features. “Margie Larsson had two daughters. Abby and Linnea.”

“Linnea,” he replied.

“I’ll be damned,” breathed Oscar with a low whistle and took a sip of his coffee. He raised it to Analise. “You see? Never know what the day is going to bring you, Ana.”

Utterly confused, she cocked her head, demanding Oscar continue.

Oscar nudged him. “If you’re digging up dirt on your mother, look no further than the woman standing in front of you.”

Analise was disturbed by the covert game. Disturbed by the way Taylor and Oscar were unpeeling her skin and exposing a rawness. “I know nothing about him,” she thrust an arm in his direction and then sliced the air, “or his mother. Linnea.” Analise made her way back into Hank’s 1970s time-machine lair.

“You Make My Dreams” was playing as he gallopped whipped cream atop the mountain of strawberries that were atop a mountain of waffles. “Ya?” He was humming along, “Whaddya think?” He presented her the creation. “Should we add this to the menu?”

“Sure,” she snapped, and without a smile added an equally pithy, “Thanks.” She latched onto a jug of maple syrup on her way out and thunked the waffles and syrup in front of Taylor. “What’s your last name?”

He drifted his eyes from the breakfast up to hers. “How did you know I love strawberry waffles?”

“Because everybody does,” she snarled and rubbed her face again. Sweat moistened her armpits, heartbeat lurching into her neck. “I’ll refill your orange juice,” she replied in a softer tone, taken aback by her own insolence.

Oscar snorted. “Ana might not know anything about your mother. But her mother, Ulla, definitely knows about your mother.” Oscar dragged in a deep breath that pulled along with it several memories it seemed. His eyes took on a sad, faraway trance before returning to his coffee, signaling another refill.

Analise aimed her gawking, silent mouth at Taylor.

With a penitent expression, Taylor said, “I need your help.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Analise

Taylor’s only explanation for Analise was that his mother, Linnea, had once been best friends with Ulla, and he urgently needed to speak with her. He declined to elaborate, much to her irritation, and wolfed down his waffles while she finished hurrying the Not-So-Bookish-Moms along in hopes of catching him. But he placed a twenty by his plate, next to a napkin inked with his information, and escaped.

Analise snatched the napkin and scanned it: 612-555-1208. I’m at the AmericInn Hotel. Can we talk? Taylor. Still no last name. He wrote in small, precise, capital letters. So he was from the Twin Cities.

Analise hustled after him, the door dinging loudly. His scent left a path in the breeze. It didn’t trigger any deleted memories from her brain injury, as scents sometimes did, but it elicited a recurring, amorous dream of hers, setting her on edge. She didn’t want to feel tempted by the sudden and intense attraction of another man when she had a loyal fiancé eager to marry her in a few days. She stopped short, hesitating, watching him signal the lock of his slick car. “Taylor!” she called out.

He froze.

So did Analise. Their eyes connected, and she waved the napkin, unsure what to say when her gaze flicked to his shoes. “You play soccer,” she said, moving toward him, meaning for it to be a question, but it felt obvious.

Taylor snapped his head up and went to her. “You remember?”

Taken aback by his intensity, Analise shook her head, her pulse cranking as he neared. “No, no, I mean, your shoes, but how well did we know each other?”

A spark in his eyes died. He looked away. She stared at his profile, his eyelashes, and the cleft in his chin.

He finally answered, “We were in the same class.”

“Last name?”

“Barnes.”

Analise rifled through her catalog of scant high school memories. “Taylor Barnes . . . I think I might remember you out of five thousand people, but I kind of kept to myself.”

He looked at her pointedly, his gaze wistful. “I remember you, everyone liked you, but you disappeared halfway through senior year. You didn’t show up after winter break.”