Flirting With Pete: A Novel by Barbara Delinsky Page A

of relaxation. Everything about the room told her that, yet, for the life of her, she couldn’t picture Connie here. He was a formal man. Never once had she seen him without a shirt and tie. But he couldn’t have worn those in here. One didn’t wear a shirt and tie while watching Toy Story or The Last of the Mohicans or Sleepless in Seattle, and those were but three of the diverse collection of videos and DVDs on his shelves. Similarly diverse was his collection of books. Mixed in with aged leather volumes was a comprehensive group of popular novels and recent works of nonfiction, all with their spines creased or dust jackets frayed. Connie had read these books. Casey shuddered to think that he had kept abreast of the world beyond his immediate life by reading books and watching movies.
    Music was something else. There was a similarly used look to the LPs in the cabinet under the stereo components, but this collection was one-dimensional, fully in keeping with the elegant formality of the grand piano upstairs. Clearly, he had been a classical buff.
    Casey had never in her life played either the piano or an LP. Nor was classical music her preference. She liked bluegrass.
    So there was another strike against father and daughter as a compatible pair. Hair and eyes notwithstanding, they were clearly two very different people— not the least indication of which being Casey’s preference for openness and fresh air. She guessed that if his office was in the subbasement as this room was, she would find it confining.
    On a wave of bravado, she returned to the hall. At the end was a direct door to the office. She opened it, slipped inside, closed it. Pulse racing, she leaned back against the door and looked around. She half expected Connie to be there, waiting, watching.
    He wasn’t, of course. The office was empty. Easily the widest room in the house, it stretched all the way from one side of the building to the other. Like much of the rest of the house, it was done in dark colors and fabrics. She saw lots of wood, and shelves on every wall. Some of the shelves had cabinets built into their lower half; others went unbroken from ceiling to the floor. She caught the faint scent of wood smoke; a fireplace was nestled into the wall of bookshelves behind her, the poker now back in place with other tools on an iron rack.
    On her left stood a large desk with a tall leather chair behind it. A not so large conference table stood on the right, surrounded by six wood chairs with corduroy seats. In the middle of the room was a sitting area, with a long sofa on one side, a pair of large chairs on the other side, and a square coffee table in between. The sofa and chairs were upholstered a dark plaid and, along with the coffee table, sat on a needlepoint carpet of equally dark reds, navies, and greens, but Casey’s eye didn’t linger there. Inviting as the grouping was, she looked over it to a pair of French doors that stood open. But she didn’t linger at the doors either, handsome though they were. Her gaze went right on out through them, drawn by a vision of sun, flowers, and woods.
    When understanding hit her, she caught her breath. But if the gesture was a subconscious attempt to hold back, she failed. It was love at first sight. She was lost.

Chapter Three
    Later, Casey might suspect that she simply had been swept away by the sun that dappled the garden, as compared to the dark of the office. Or that what she loved was that the garden was so not like her image of Connie. Or that having grown up with a mother who loved everything to do with the outdoors, the garden felt like home.
    Whatever, she was drawn inexorably there. Slipping through the screen door, she passed under a pergola onto a path of large stones. Mossy earth lay between them in what would be shade come afternoon, but the sun was high now, and it lit not only the path, but a large bed of flowers on her right. She saw varieties of whites grouped together, as well as