More Than Words Can Say by Robert Barclay Page A

sand.
    “Hello there,” he said simply. His voice carried a masculine sort of huskiness that she found appealing. “I didn’t hear a car drive up, so you must be my new neighbor, right?”
    When he smiled again, his grin had a bright, almost incandescent quality that Brooke immediately liked. As he pulled off his work gloves and stuffed them into his back pockets, he took a quick glance at the pie.
    “And besides,” he added, “with sugar being so precious these days, who else would be bringing me dessert?”
    Brooke walked closer and held out one hand. “I’m Brooke Bartlett,” she said. “You bought this tract of land from my father, James.”
    He took her hand and shook it firmly. “Ah, yes,” he answered. “Your dad sure knows how to run a hard bargain, I’ll give him that. I’m Gregory Butler, but please call me Greg.”
    “Greg . . . ,” Brooke answered.
    He was a very striking man, she thought. His height and leanness gave one the impression that when God made him, the only raw materials the Almighty had left at his disposal were muscle, bone, and sharp angles. He seemed confident and quite at ease with himself. His longish, wavy hair was light brown, with blond highlights that shined in the late afternoon sun. She also noticed that he had a right clubfoot, which explained why he had difficulty rising from the garden. His kind-looking eyes were the softest shade of gray. Deep dimples graced either side of his mouth when he smiled, and a slim, dark mustache graced his upper lip. He looked rather like Errol Flynn, Brooke decided.
    “What are you planting?” Brooke asked.
    “Coneflowers,” he answered. “Are you familiar with them?”
    Brooke nodded. “They’re in the daisy family, right?”
    “Right,” Greg answered. “When these come up, they’ll be violet. And once they get started, they grow wild. I’m not sure that they’ll take in this sandy soil, though.”
    “I thought that maybe you were planting a victory garden,” Brooke said.
    Greg smiled and shook his head. “Truth is, I don’t need one,” he answered.
    As Brooke handed him the pie, he thanked her.
    “It looks delicious,” he added. He then held up an index finger. “May I?” he asked.
    Brooke nodded. “Sure,” she said.
    After dipping his fingertip gently into the pie, he tasted it. “God, that’s good,” he said. “And it’s chilled!”
    Brooke beamed. “Right,” she answered. “It’s my own recipe.”
    “What’s it called?” Greg asked.
    “Churchill’s Cherry and Cream Cheese Pie.”
    A curious look overcame Greg’s face. “Excuse me?” he asked.
    “I name all my own recipes after war leaders and such,” she answered.
    Greg grinned. “Just ours, presumably?” he asked. “I mean, I hope that the daughter of upstate New York’s largest newspaper owner isn’t naming her food after our enemies! No ‘Hitler Ham,’ I take it?”
    Brooke laughed broadly. “No!” she answered. “Even though he is one!”
    As Greg smiled again, the corners of his eyes wrinkled pleasantly. “We need to get this into my refrigerator, don’t we?”
    “Yes,” Brooke answered. “The sooner, the better.”
    “I just made a pot of fresh coffee,” Greg said. “Would you like some?”
    Brooke was surprised by that, and the look on her face said so. “You made a whole pot just for yourself?” she asked. “Where’d you get it all from?”
    Greg gave her a sly wink. “I know a guy . . . ,” he said, and left it at that.
    As Brooke followed Greg inside, she saw that his cottage was quite pleasant. Some unopened boxes lay here and there, indicating that Greg was still in the process of getting settled. Because new furniture was scarce these days, he had furnished the interior with used items that lent the place a comfortable, already-lived-in look. After following him into the kitchen, Brooke put the pie into the refrigerator.
    “So how do you take your coffee?” Greg asked.
    “Black, thanks,” Brooke